\r- 


A 


RTHUR 


Merton 


A  Romance 


BY 


ADMIRAL  DAVID  D.  PORTER,  U.S.N. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1889, 
By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY, 


9 


ARTHUR    MERTON. 


CHAPTER   I. 


It  is  a  trite  remark  that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  and 
if  many  of  the  events  of  every-day  life  were  presented  in 
narrative  form  they  would  be  much  more  interesting  reading 
than  the  novels  with  which  the  market  is  flooded.  The 
scenes  of  our  story  are  laid  in  places  with  which  the  reader 
may  not  be  familiar,  but  the  story  will  be  none  the  less  in- 
teresting on  that  account,  as  it  refers  to  a  country  with 
which  we  have  the  closest  sympathies  and  with  which  we 
are  bound  by  the  strongest  ties — a  country  that  has  done 
more  for  civilization  than  any  other,  on  whose  flag  the  sun 
never  sets,  and  whose  drum-beat  is  heard  continually  on  the 
great  circle  which  passes  through  her  dominions. 

The  British  Isles  abound  in  lovely  scenery.  A  thousand 
years  of  civilization  have  been  spent  in  beautifying  almost 
every  part  of  England,  and  it  is  in  one  of  its  most  enchant- 
ing districts  that  our  tale  commences.  Every  one  must 
know  something  of  the  county  of  Kent,  which  has  no  supe- 
rior in  all  that  goes  to  make  mankind  happy,  if  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  happiness  to  be  found  on  this  globe.  Kent  is 
bounded  on  the  north  by  the  river  Thames,  and  to  the  east 
there  is  formed  a  peninsula  by  the  river  Med  way,  which  has 
a  wide  opening  as  far  as  Chatham  and  Rochester.  The 
banks  of  these  beautiful  streams  are  fringed  with  estates 
owned  by  wealthy  UEODjietois^  some  of  whom  can  boast  of 


4  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

their  descent  from  ancestors  who  gave  aid  to  the  cause 
of  Charles  I  in  the  great  civil  war.  It  is  on  the  penin- 
sula, some  twenty  miles  east  of  Rochester,  that  our  story 
begins. 

On  an  estate  of  some  nine  hundred  acres  lived  Squire 
Pentland  in  a  manor-house  built  in  the  time  of  William  III. 
It  had  undergone  many  changes  in  the  interim  through  the 
different  fancies  of  the  numerous  proprietors,  who  always 
seemed  to  have  money  enough  to  indulge  themselves  in  what- 
ever would  improve  the  beautiful  place,  and  never  had  to 
resort  to  cutting  down  the  timber  to  supply  means  to  carry 
on  the  necessary  improvements.  The  result  was  that  thou- 
sands of  mighty  oaks,  with  branches  twisted  and  gnarled, 
covered  the  land;  and  the  squire  would  have  as  soon  thought 
of  cutting  off  a  limb  as  of  felling  one  of  these  grand  old 
trees. 

A  carefully  kept  lawn  extended  with  a  gentle  declivity 
to  the  river  Medway,  which  offered  an  unceasing  supply  of 
amusement,  owing  to  the  numbers  of  small  craft  that  were 
continually  passing  before  the  house,  while  ships  in  tow  of 
steamers  could  frequently  be  seen  wending  their  way  up  the 
river  from  long  voyages. 

The  estate  was  called  Moorland,  from  the  picturesque 
moors  in  the  vicinty,  where  the  pheasant,  the  black  ccck, 
the  partridge,  and  the  quail  were  found  in  abundance ;  while 
the  fallow  deer  reclined  at  ease  beneath  oaks  renowned 
beyond  all  others  in  that  neighborhood  for  their  size  and 
beauty. 

Squire  Pentland,  the  eighth  proprietor  of  Moorland  of 
his  family,  was  fifty-five  years  of  age,  six  feet  in  height,  well 
proportioned,  and  the  picture  of  health — in  fact,  he  had  never 
known  a  day's  illness  in  his  life  ;  his  eye  was  bright  and 
keen,  his  complexion  ruddy  ;  he  rode  with  the  hounds  and 
was  incessantly  in  the  field  in  the  hunting  season.  He  was 
truly  a  type  of  the  fine  old  English  country  gentleman  of 
whom  we  read,  who  has  done  so  much  to  form  the  charac- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  5 

ter  of  Englishmen  and  so  much  for  the  honor  and  glory  of 
Great  Britain. 

The  squire  was  much  beloved  by  all  the  people  of  the 
neighborhood.  He  kept  open  house  and  was  celebrated  for 
his  urbanity  and  liberality,  while  his  handsome  wife,  some 
six  years  his  junior,  threw  a  charm  over  Moorland  which  it 
would  not  have  possessed  but  for  her  presence. 

The  owner  of  Moorland  had  one  son,  the  joy  and  pride 
of  his  parents.  He  had  the  strength  and  sturdiness  of  his 
father  with  the  grace  and  beauty  of  his  mother.  Though 
but  twelve  years  of  age  he  could  follow  the  hounds  in  their 
chase  of  fox  or  hare,  and  with  his  light  "  Joe  Manton  "  could 
bring  down  the  swiftest  pheasant,  while  rabbits  and  hares 
stood  no  chance  before  his  unerring  aim.  Even  at  this  early 
age  he  was  trained  in  every  sport  that  would  tend  to  make 
a  man  of  him.  He  was  an  amiable  boy,  full  of  energy  when 
occasion  called  for  it,  and  a  general  favorite  with  all  who 
knew  him.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  with  such  parents  ? 
Every  one  was  struck  at  the  first  sight  of  him  with  his  bright 
face  and  manly  figure.  Roland  Pentland  was  a  particular 
favorite  with  young  girls,  even  those  older  than  himself,  for 
he  could  easily  have  passed  for  fourteen.  His  manners  were 
extremely  good  and  he  showed  great  deference  to  the  fair 
sex  in  acts  and  words.  In  short,  Roland  Pentland  was  the 
pet  of  the  parish. 

About  the  time  of  which  we  write  a  strange  gentleman 
made  his  appearance  in  the  neighborhood  and  took  up  his 
abode  in  a  neat  cottage  owned  by  a  Mrs.  Grant,  a  kindly 
old  lady  who  was  famed  for  keeping  the  best  lodging-house 
in  the  little  village  of  Elk,  two  miles  from  Moorland.  Tak- 
ing a  parlor  and  bedroom,  the  stranger  proceeded  to  make 
himself  comfortable,  and  Mrs.  Grant  left  nothing  undone  to 
minister  to  his  wants.  He  made  his  stay  so  long  that  the 
people  of  the  parish  began  to  wonder  who  he  was  and  what 
he  wanted,  for  it  was  not  often  that  a  stranger  visited  the 
village  for  more  than  a  day  or  two.     This  gentleman  was  of 


6  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

early  habits,  and  half-past  six  every  morning  found  him 
rambling  over  the  country. 

One  morning  the  stranger  called  at  the  office  of  Mr. 
Grub,  a  real-estate  agent,  and  finding  that  gentleman  at 
home,  entered  and  was  received  with  the  greatest  civility. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Merton,"  said  the  agent  ;  "  I 
have  been  expecting  yoa  for  some  days.  Take  a  seat,  sir. 
I  have  several  places  for  you  to  examine,  and  one  in  par- 
ticular with  which  I  am  sure  you  will  be  well  pleased." 

"  I  think  I  have  seen  it,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  or  at  least 
have  seen  one  that  suits  me,  a  place  called  Woodlawn,  and 
I  wish  to  know  the  price." 

"  We  had  better  go  and  examine  it  thoroughly,"  said  the 
agent,  "  for  I  want  you  to  be  perfectly  satisfied  with  the 
place  before  you  take  it." 

With  that  they  walked  together  in  the  direction  of  Moor- 
land until  they  came  to  a  wood  which  they  entered  through 
a  gate  supported  by  massive  stone  pillars. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Grub,  "this  is  one  of  the  handsomest 
estates  in  the  county,  almost  equal  to  Moorland,  which  it 
joins.     It  will  cost  you  a  mint  of  money." 

"  That  is  my  affair,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  stiffly.  "  The  best 
place  for  a  man's  money  is  in  land,  where  it  can  not  fly 
away." 

"  That  is  the  trouble  with  the  present  owner  of  Wood- 
lawn,"  said  the  agent ;  "  his  father  built  the  house,  while  he 
added  the  wings  to  it.  The  mortgage  on  the  estate  is  the 
only  thing  that  keeps  it  from  flying  away." 

"Umph!"  replied  Mr.  Merton;  "it  will  not  fly  away 
from  me  when  I  once  own  it." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  house,  a  fine  brick 
edifice  with  no  signs  of  age  about  it  beyond  some  patches 
of  ivy  that  covered  the  east  wing.  The  mansion,  which  was 
in  the  Georgian  style,  was  built  about  the  year  1810,  and  was 
in  excellent  order.  The  grounds  were  beautifully  laid  out 
and  well  cared  for.     A  closely  cut  lawn  extended  from  the 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  7 

house  to  the  banks  of  the  Medway,  and  a  large  number  of 
grand  old  oaks  shaded  the  grounds,  like  those  at  Moorland 
— in  fact,  the  lawn  at  Woodlawn  was  almost  a  counterpart  of 
that  of  the  former,  containing  a  number  of  deer  and  a  quan- 
tity of  game.  Squire  Pentland's  keeper  sometimes  com- 
plained that,  owing  to  the  owner  of  Woodlawn  being  no 
sportsman  and  allowing  no  shooting  on  the  place,  the  game 
from  the  surrounding  country  would  retire  there  as  a  place 
of  safety.  Animals  have  the  instinct  of  self  preservation  in 
such  matters,  in  which  they  resemble  human  beings. 

Walking  up  the  broad  steps  which  led  to  the  veranda 
surrounding  the  house,  Mr.  Merton  seated  himself  in  a 
carved  arm-chair,  and  after  surveying  the  scene  for  a  few 
moments,  remarked  :  "  This  is  what  I  am  seeking  for— 
where  I  can  find  quiet  repose  after  a  weary  life.  What  is 
it  worth  as  it  stands— land,  stock,  and  agricultural  imple- 
ments ?  " 

"  It  is  the  most  elegant  establishment  of  the  kind  in  this 
part  of  the  county,"  replied  the  agent,  "  and  you  will  have 
the  best  society.  It  is  worth  while  living  here  just  to  know 
Squire  Pentland  and  his  charming  wife." 

"I  didn't  ask  you  about  the  society  or  Squire  Pent- 
land  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Merton,  gruffly.  "  I  generally  choose 
my  own  society,  and  am  not  inclined  to  play  second  fiddle 
to  county  squires.  I  asked  you  about  the  house,  farm,  and 
stock.  If  the  price  suits  me,  I  will  take  it ;  if  not,  I  will  go 
elsewhere.  So  don't  lose  time  in  talking  about  anything 
but  the  matter  in  hand." 

The  astonished  Mr.  Grub  saw  that  he  had  a  very  differ- 
ent man  to  deal  with  from  Squire  Pentland,  but  he  could 
not  resist  saying  :  "Why,  Mr.  Merton,  the  first  thing  a  pur- 
chaser asks  in  these  parts  is,  'What  kind  of  society  have 
you  ? ' " 

"  Sir,  you  are  as  garrulous  as  a  barber,"  answered  Mr. 
Merton,  "  and  if  I  can  not  conduct  this  matter  in  a  strictly 
business-like  manner  and  in  accordance  with  my  own  ideas,  I 


8  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

will  try  to  obtain  an  interview  with  the  proprietor  in  person, 
and  make  a  bargain  with  him.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Grub,  but 
I  am  a  man  of  business.  I  want  no  one  to  pry  into  my 
affairs  or  anticipate  my  wishes.  I  choose  my  own  company 
and  intrude  on  no  one.  It  is  not  likely  that  Squire  Pent- 
land  and  I  will  ever  become  acquainted." 

Mr.  Grub  looked  at  the  man  in  amazement  and  said  to 
himself,  ''  I  don't  think  Squire  Pentland  will  want  to  know 
more  of  you  after  one  interview."  But  he  could  not  con- 
trol his  natural  habit,  and  inquired,  "  Have  you  a  family, 
Mr.  Merton } " 

"That's  my  affair,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  but  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  I  have  a  bull-dog,  and  he  bites  inquisitive 
people." 

This  was  the  feather  that  broke  the  camel's  back,  and 
Mr.  Grub  subsided. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "give  me  a  list  of  the  stock, 
first  and  foremost,  and  then  I  will  look  at  it." 

"This  is  the  list,"  said  Mr.  Grub,  and  he  proceeded  to 
read  : 

"Four  blooded  coach-horses,  two  hunters,  two  gentle- 
man's riding-horses,  one  lady's  riding-horse,  one  cob,  two 
ponies,  eight  farm-horses,  two  dray-horses,  one  bull,  twelve 
cows,  two  donkeys,  twenty  hogs,  sixty  sheep,  twelve  beef 
steers,  fifty  turkeys,  three  hundred  chickens,  fifty  geese, 
sixty  ducks,  and  some  goats." 

"  Quite  stock  enough,"  remarked  Mr.  Merton. 

"  But  not  quite  equal  to  the  squire,"  said  the  irrepressible 
Grub. 

"  The  devil  take  the  squire  !  "  roared  Mr.  Merton  ;  "  I 
can  buy  him  out." 

Grub  subsided  again.  This  was  downright  heresy.  No 
one  dared  to  speak  in  this  way  regarding  the  squire  in  that 
neighborhood,  but  he  continued  reading  the  catalogue: 
"  One  road  coach,  one  landau,  one  double  phaeton,  one  T- 
cart,  one  dog-cart,  four  farm-wagons,  two  hay-wagons,  five 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  9 

carts,  six  plows,  four  harrows,"  and   then  followed  a  list  of 
farming-tools  too  numerous  to  mention. 

"  How  many  acres  of  land  are  there  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Mer- 
ton. 

"  Five  hundred  acres,"  responded  the  other  ;  but  incau- 
tiously added,  "  the  squire  has  nine  hundred." 

"  D n  the  squire  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Merton,  in  a  rage ; 

"  I  don't  care  what  he  owns.     I  do  not  intend  that  he  or 
any  one  else  shall  trespass  on  my  land." 

Mr.  Grub  almost  sunk  to  the  ground  and  thought  to 
himself,  "  This  is  the  meanest  wretch  I  ever  fell  in  with," 
but  he  was  anxious  to  sell  the  place,  and  restrained  his  wrath. 

Then  they  walked  about  and  examined  everything  of 
interest  until  the  day  was  far  spent,  and  Mr.  Merton  pro- 
posed returning  to  the  mansion.  This  was  furnished  com- 
pletely, from  attic  to  cellar,  in  the  most  luxurious  style. 
Everything  was  ready  for  a  housekeeper  to  begin  work- 
nothing  was  lacking. 

"  There  is  a  great  abundance  of  everything  here,"  said 
Mr.  Merton  ;  "  the  owner  must  have  had  princely  tastes  and 
habits.     But,  pray,  what  is  all  this  stuff  worth  ?  " 

"The  furniture  of  this  house  cost  eight  thousand 
pounds,"  said  Mr.  Grub.  "  The  house  cost  sixteen  thou- 
sand pounds.  Of  the  land,  three  hundred  acres  are  arable, 
but  half  of  it  is  now  in  grass  ;  there  are  one  hundred  acres 
in  timber,  and  about  one  hundred  in  meadow.  The  land 
is  valued  at  forty-six  thousand  pounds.  There  is  the  finest 
hunting  in  the  county  here.  The  whole  amount  asked  for 
the  estate  is  seventy  thousand  pounds." 

"And  quite  enough,  too,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "but  I  v/ill 
take  it." 

"  One  half  cash,"  interrupted   Mr.  Grub,  "and  the  rest 

to  remain  on  mortgage,  if  the  purchaser  wishes.     There  is 

already  a  mortgage  of  f,.  enty-four  thousand  pounds  on  it 

that  has  nearly  expired.    Six  months*  notice  has  been  given." 

"  I  will  take  the  place  and  close  up  the  mortgage.     I 


lO  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

want  the  property  free.     None  but  a  fool  would  have  a  mort- 
gage on  his  estate." 

Mr.  Grub  smiled  blandly.  ''Why,  that  is  uncommon 
to  find  here,"  he  said;  "  even  Squire  Pentland  has  a  mort- 
gage on  his  fine  estate." 

"Confound  Squire  Pentland  and  his  estate  !"  said  the 
other.  "  What  do  I  care  ?  Keep  to  the  matter  before  you. 
Make  out  the  papers,  and  I  will  put  them  in  the  hands  of  my 
lawyer.  When  he  says  everything  is  right,  I  will  pay  the 
money.     I  want  to  move  in  in  ten  days." 

"  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  pay  down  one  thousand  pounds, 
and  you  can  move  in  when  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Grub.  And 
so  the  matter  was  settled,  the  one  thousand  pounds  paid,  and 
Mr.  Merton,  taking  formal  possession,  engaged  a  manager 
for  the  farm,  and  left  the  town,  no  one  knew  whither. 

In  about  ten  days  he  returned  with  his  wife  and  son — the 
latter  twelve  years  of  age — a  large  amount  of  luggage,  and  the 
fierce  bull-dog  of  which  he  had  spoken  to  Mr.  Grub.  Mr. 
Merton  brought  no  servants,  except  a  housekeeper,  a  butler, 
and  a  lady's  maid.  A  corps  of  servants  had  been  engaged 
by  the  real-estate  agent,  consisting  of  a  cook,  a  laundress, 
two  house-maids,  two  footmen,  a  coachman,  and  two  stable- 
men.    The  manager  supplied  all  the  men  for  the  farm. 

The  landau  met  the  party  at  the  station  on  their  arrival. 
It  was  drawn  by  four  fine  horses.  A  footman  opened  the 
carriage  door,  and  the  family  entered.  "  To  Woodlawn," 
said  Mr.  Merton,  simply — the  horses  started,  and  in  half  an 
hour  reached  the  gates,  passed  through  the  avenue  of  oaks, 
drew  up  at  the  door,  and  the  party  alighted. 

Up  to  this  time  not  a  word  had  been  spoken  by  the  fam- 
ily party,  and  it  was  evident  that  it  was  not  the  habit  of  the 
Mertons  to  interchange  their  thoughts  in  words.  Though 
the  house  and  grounds  were  beautiful  no  one  expressed 
any  pleasure.  The  lady  sat  with  her  face  hidden  by  her 
veil,  and  the  boy  sittmg  in  front  of  his  mother  kept  an  anx- 
ious eye  fixed  upon  her  to  see  if  he  could  detect  any  symp- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  II 

torn  of  pleasure,  but  he  could  see  nothing  through  the  thick 
veil.  His  mother  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  while 
his  father  uttered  no  word  to  either  of  them.  So  they  rode 
on,  and  people  seeing  them  might  have  supposed  them  to  be 
a  party  of  mutes. 

When  they  had  ascended  the  steps  and  stood  upon  the 
porch,  Mr.  Merton  turned  to  his  wife,  and  said  :  "  You  do 
not  seem  to  be  pleased  with  this  purchase.  There  is  a  view 
that  might  raise  a  dead  woman,  and  yet  it  does  not  seem  to 
meet  your  approbation." 

She  answered  in  a  plaintive  voice  :  **  I  am  so  unaccus- 
tomed, Mr.  Merton,  to  express  an  opinion  without  your  espe- 
cial request  that  I  have  not  thought  of  doing  so  this  time, 
but  since  you  ask,  I  must  say  this  is  more  beautiful  than  any- 
thing I  ever  imagined  ;   perhaps  I  may  be  happy  here." 

"  Umph  !  "  he  said,  and  walked  in  the  house  where  the 
housekeeper,  courtesying  low,  stood  ready  to  receive  him 
and  the  mistress  of  the  mansion.  Paying  no  more  attention 
to  the  housekeeper  than  if  she  had  been  the  cat,  Mr.  Mer- 
ton walked  into  the  library,  deposited  his  hat,  cane,  and 
gloves  on  a  table,  and,  lighting  a  cigar,  sat  down  to  take  his 
ease,  leaving  his  wife  and  son  to  take  care  of  themselves. 

In  the  mean  time  Mrs.  Merton  and  her  son  remained  on 
the  porch.  The  boy  went  up  to  his  mother,  put  aside  her 
veil,  and,  looking  affectionately  at  her,  said  :  "  Mother,  dear, 
this  will  make  us  happy.  Was  there  ever  anything  more 
beautiful }  Here  we  can  forget  the  dreadful  life  we  have  led 
for  the  past  ten  years  at  '  Cross-Bones,'  as  the  natives  called 
it ;  and  if  father  will  only  give  me  a  boat,  we  shall  have  many 
nice  excursions  on  that  beautiful  Medway.  We  will  be  hap- 
py, mother  ;  we  will  be  happy  at  last." 

"  Ah,  Arthur,  my  darling,"  she  feebly  replied,  "  there  is 
no  happiness  beyond  you  in  this  life  for  me.  I  have  shed 
so  many  tears  that  I  might  have  had  a  river  of  my  own. 
There  will  be  no  happiness  here  for  me,  though  I  shall  enjoy 
what  gives  you  pleasure.     I  can  see  at  a  glance  that  there  is 


12  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

everything  here  which  can  give  a  boy  of  your  age  all  he 
could  desire,  and  perhaps  the  beauty  of  the  place  may  effect 
a  change  in  your  father." 

"  God  grant  it,  dear  mother,"  said  Arthur,  and  he  took 
her  to  the  end  of  the  porch  to  examine  more  closely  the 
landscape  before  them.  Mr.  Merton  had  never  given  his 
family  any  account  of  the  estate  he  had  purchased,  merely 
saying  he  had  bought  a  home  in  Kent,  but  as  to  the  particu- 
lar locality,  or  the  character  of  the  home,  they  were  left  to 
their  own  conjectures. 

In  a  short  time  the  butler  and  lady's  maid  arrived  with 
the  luggage  from  the  station,  and  Mr.  Merton  told  the  house- 
keeper to  take  charge  and  to  continue  everything  as  if  they 
had  not  changed  locations.  This  was  a  simple  affair,  for  the 
mansion  was  so  completely  supplied  with  every  requisite  for 
housekeeping  that  she  found  no  difficulty  in  carrying  out 
her  master's  orders. 

Mrs.  Merton  and  her  son,  after  surveying  the  grounds  to 
their  hearts'  content,  followed  the  maid  up-stairs,  where  their 
wonder  was  aroused  anew  at  the  fine  rooms  and  furniture. 
It  seemed  as  if  some  generous  fairy  had  stripped  the  belong- 
ings from  some  of  the  handsomest  houses  in  London  to  place 
them  in  the  mansion  at  Woodlawn. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean,  dear  Arthur  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton, with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  After  the  doleful  life  we  have 
led  in  such  a  place  as  Lyneham,  in  Wiltshire,  I  can  not  con- 
ceive what  could  have  brought  your  father  here,  though  I 
thank  God  for  our  removal." 

''  You  forget,  dear  mother,"  said  Arthur,  "  that  the  doctor 
recommended  a  change  for  you  where  you  could  obtain  a 
mild  sea  air,  and  this  is  sufficiently  near  the  sea  to  give  you 
what  you  need.  Besides  this  you  required  an  entire  change 
of  scene,  and,  mother,  dear,  there  was  never  anything  more 
beautiful  than  this  place.  In  a  month  we  shall  see  the  color 
coming  back  to  that  pale  face  of  yours."  He  put  his  arms 
around  his  mother's  neck  and  kissed  her  fondly,  a  caress 


ARTHUR  ME R TON.  1 3 

which  she  returned.  "  And,  now,"  he  said,  "  I  must  go  and 
look  for  my  room,  and  find  what  wonders  are  in  store  for  me, 
as  all  this  seems  like  a  dream,  and  I  am  afraid  every  moment 
I  shall  wake  up  and  see  everything  flown  away.  Cheer  up, 
mother,  darling,  happiness  is  in  store  for  us." 

"  God  grant  it,  my  darling  boy,"  and  putting  away  the 
clustering  hair  from  his  forehead  she  again  kissed  Arthur, 
and  bade  him  go  and  do  as  he  suggested. 

Arthur  was  delighted  with  his  room.  It  was  large,  and 
seemed  to  him  to  have  been  fitted  up  especially  for  some 
young  prince,  who  might  come  in  at  any  time  and  request  him 
to  vacate  it,  but  his  portmanteau  was  standing  near  a  win- 
dow, and  he  thought  he  bade  fair  to  stay.  "At  any  rate," 
he  said,  *'  possession  is  nine  points  of  the  law." 

The  apartment  was  all  that  a  boy  could  desire  ;  the  fur- 
niture was  upholstered  in  blue  satin  trimmed  with  gold,  the 
walls  were  frescoed  a  light  blue  and  gold,  a  case  filled  with 
elegantly  bound  books  stood  in  one  corner,  the  wood-work 
of  the  furniture  was  carved  oak,  and  the  tables  and  mantels 
were  adorned  with  a  quantity  of  bric-a-brac,  which  could 
not  help  but  delight  the  eye  of  a  more  critical  person  than 
Arthur.  In  a  corner  was  a  handsome  brass-mounted  ma- 
hogany box,  which  Arthur  found  to  contain  a  double  bar- 
reled gun  of  the  latest  pattern,  with  all  the  appurtenances. 
Arthur  had  never  yet  fired  a  gun,  much  less  owned  one,  and 
in  his  heart  he  thanked  his  father  for  his  forethought  in 
looking  after  his  future  pleasure.  But  the  gun  was  not 
due  to  Mr.  Merton's  forethought — it  was  left  by  the  late 
proprietor,  who  had  to  part  with  everything  he  owned  to 
make  good  his  losses  through  extravagance  and  reckless 
speculations. 

Arthur  should  have  known  that  a  fondness  for  sporting 
and  the  possession  of  a  gun,  with  a  knowledge  of  its  use, 
would  depreciate  him  in  his  father's  eyes,  but  he  went  down- 
stairs, after  dressing,  determined  to  express  his  gratitude  to 
his  father  at  the  first  opportunity. 


14  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

At  two  o'clock  luncheon  was  announced,  and  the  family 
assembled  in  the  great  dining-room  for  the  meal.  The  but- 
ler was  in  his  place  to  superintend  operations,  while  two 
footmen  in  green  and  gold  livery  stood  ready  to  serve  the 
luncheon. 

The  reader  has  only  been  introduced  to  Mrs.  Merton  in 
her  traveling  dress,  her  features  covered  with  a  thick  black 
veil,  and  an  opinion  could  scarcely  be  formed  whether  she 
was  twenty  or  fifty  years  of  age;  but  as  she  entered  the  room, 
with  her  son's  arm  around  her  waist,  she  appeared  to  be  a 
delicate  woman  of  thirty-two.  She  was  pale,  and  her  feat- 
ures seemed  to  have  been  carved  out  of  Parian  marble. 
Her  hair  was  black  and  wavy  ;  her  eyes  were  beautiful,  but 
very  sad;  and  her  dainty  mouth,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
intended  to  smile  always,  held  two  rows  of  pearly  teeth,  was 
drawn  at  the  corners  and  wore  a  look  of  pain.  Her  figure, 
formerly  plump  and  beautiful,  had  become  attenuated,  and 
her  lovely  hands,  once  covered  with  dimples,  were  now 
transparent.  She  had  been  an  invalid  for  years  from  some 
insidious  disease  which  had  baffled  the  skill  of  the  best  phy- 
sicians, until  one  wiser  than  the  rest  discovered  that  it  was 
useless  to  try  to  *' minister  to  a  mind  diseased,"  and  had 
accordingly  recommended  an  entire  change.  As  Mr.  Mer- 
ton's  wishes  coincided  with  this  advice,  he  purchased  Wood- 
lawn,  without  even  hinting  to  his  wife  that  he  was  going  to 
do  so.  Fortunately  the  purchase  pleased  her  and  her  son 
very  much. 

The  meal  passed  quietly  enough,  there  being  no  conver- 
sation at  the  table.  The  butler  and  footmen  moved  about 
like  automatons,  and  not  a  sound  was  heard  except  a  slight 
rattling  of  glasses  and  plates,  which  could  not  be  avoided. 
The  only  words  spoken  at  the  table  were  by  Mr.  Merton, 
who,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair,  said,  in  a  stern  voice,  to  the 
housekeeper  :  *'  Give  notice  to  the  cook,  and  get  another  as 
soon  as  possible.  This  woman's  cooking  will  not  agree 
with  Mrs.  Merton." 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 5 

*'  Please,  Mr.  Merton,"  the  latter  said,  "  do  not  discharge 
the  woman  on  my  account.  I  have  not  enjoyed  a  meal  so 
much  in  a  long  time.  She  will  improve,  no  doubt,  in  a  short 
time,  and  seems  to  be  a  fair  cook." 

This  was  the  first  time  in  years  that  she  had  undertaken 
to  differ  with  her  husband  in  opinion,  and  he  looked  at  her 
in  surprise.  "Ah  !  "  he  said,  "but  you  do  not  understand 
that  it  is  the  salt  -air  that  gives  you  an  appetite,  and  you 
must  have  the  best  cook  to  keep  up  that  appetite,  and  she 
must  be  able  to  prepare  tempting  dishes.  Carry  out  my 
orders,  Nelson,  and  have  a  change  as  soon  as  possible." 
So  saying,  Mr.  Merton  took  a  cigar  from  a  Sevres  vase,  and 
walked  off  to  the  library  for  a  solitary  smoke.  This  had 
been  his  habit  for  years,  and,  as  he  never  paid  any  attention 
to  the  wishes  of  others,  it  was  not  at  all  likely  that  he  would 
change  it  now. 

Accustomed  to  depend  on  the  society  of  each  other,  Mrs. 
Merton  and  Arthur  walked  out  on  the  porch,  where,  sitting 
hand  in  hand,  they  passed  an  hour  in  silent  thought  and 
lost  in  admiration  at  the  beautiful  scenery  before  them. 
There  was  the  Medway  at  their  feet  dotted  with  sails  and 
small  steamers.  On  the  left  v/as  the  estate  of  Moorland, 
with  its  manor-house  covered  with  ivy  over  two  centuries 
old,  its  lawn  covered  with  oaks  still  older,  with  a  thick 
wood  farther  to  the  left  of  the  lawn  where  hundreds  of  deer 
were  reclining  in  the  shade  to  escape  the  heat  of  July, 

The  prospect  was  entrancing,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
many  years  the  sweet  lady  of  Woodlawn  felt  like  smiling. 
But  what  kind  of  a  man  could  that  be  who,  after  bringing 
his  lovely  wife  and  brave-looking  boy  to  such  an  abode, 
failed  to  welcome  them  by  w^ord  or  sign  to  this  haven  of 
rest  ?  He  felt  himself  that  it  was  so  superior  to  the  place 
they  had  left  that  he  wondered  he  had  wasted  so  many  years 
of  his  life  there.  He  remained  in  his  library  smoking,  while 
he,  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  wished  that  he  could 
form  an  excuse  for  joining  them  in  that  communion  of  feel- 


1 6  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

ing  which  seemed  to  make  them  so  happy  together,  but  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  move,  so  he  sat  still  and 
smoked  on  till  the  twilight  had  begun  to  throw  its  shadows 
over  land  and  water. 

The  lowing  of  the  cattle,  as  they  came  into  the  farm- 
yard for  the  night,  and  the  song  of  the  laborers  returning 
from  their  work  fell  pleasantly  on  the  ear  and  warned  Mrs. 
Merton  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  retire  into  the  house. 
The  servants  began  to  light  up  the  hall,  dining-room,  and 
parlor,  and  the  beautiful  day  was  practically  ended  for  her. 
She  would  have  to  appear  at  dinner,  and  then  retire  up-stairs 
to  her  boudoir  with  Arthur,  where  she  might  try  to  forget 
the  sorrows  that  had  dimmed  her  eyes  and  almost  broken 
her  heart. 

This  had  been  an  eventful  day  for  all  the  household, 
and  the  mother  and  son  closed  their  eyes  in  sleep  more 
sweet  than  had  visited  them  for  a  long  time. 

We  have  in  as  few  words  as  possible  located  the  two  fam- 
ilies about  whom  center  the  events  of  this  story.  Moorland 
was  the  home  of  love,  happiness,  and  mutual  trust ;  Wood- 
lawn,  a  home  where  only  two  hearts  beat  in  unison,  and  it 
was  yet  uncertain  whether  they  were  to  find  happiness  or 
sorrow  amid  the  beautiful  scenes  with  which  they  were  sur- 
rounded. 


CHAPTER   II. 


Tell  me  of  a  man's  acts  and  I  can  imagine  his  looks.  I 
should  say  then  that  Mr,  Merton  was  a  tall,  thin  person, 
with  close-cropped  iron -gray  hair,  long  nose,  and  a  mouth 
full  of  large  white  teeth  that  snapped  together  like  a  steel 
trap,  reminding  one  of  the  wolf  that  devoured  little  Red 
Riding  Hood  and  her  grandmother.  His  small  gray  eyes 
looking  out  through  his  bushy  eyebrows  resembled  those  of 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 7 

a  ferret.     Mr.  Merton's  only  good  quality  was  that  he  dressed 
like  a  gentleman. 

Mr.  Merton  had  appeared  at  Lyneham,  in  Wiltshire,  some 
twenty  years  before  the  time  at  which  our  story  opened, 
and  bought  up  a  large  tract  of  land  bordering  on  the  river 
Avon.  He  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money,  canceled  the 
incumbrances  resting  on  the  land,  and  in  the  course  of  a 
month  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  title  deeds,  and  was  pro- 
claimed the  owner.  The  people  of  the  neighborhood  won- 
dered who  he  could  be  and  for  what  purpose  he  had  pur- 
chased the  land,  but  he  gave  them  no  information  by  which 
their  curiosity  could  be  gratified. 

In  three  months  he  returned  to  Lyneham  with  architects, 
builders,  and  innumerable  plans.  After  long  discussion,  a 
site  was  selected  upon  the  banks  of  the  Avon  suitable  for 
using  the  water-power,  and  Mr.  Merton  commenced  erecting 
large  buildings,  the  character  of  which  was  soon  apparent. 
He  erected  a  manufactory  for  making  screws  of  all  sizes,  a 
wire  manufactory,  one  for  making  farming  implements,  and 
another  for  making  mechanical  tools.  In  two  years  the  fac- 
tories were  in  running  order,  fully  equipped  with  the  neces- 
sary machinery,  and  were  supplying  the  country  and  for- 
eigners with  many  necessary  implements.  Mr.  Merton  also 
built  himself  a  fair-sized  house,  such  as  he  deemed  fit  for  a 
bachelor  to  occupy,  which  was  situated  near  the  factories  so 
that  he  could  supervise  the  work  going  on  and  have  every- 
thing under  his  own  eye. 

He  was  a  hard  master  who  would  not  hesitate  to  grind  the 
very  bones  of  his  employes,  if  by  so  doing  he  could  increase 
his  gains.  He  not  only  wanted  to  fill  his  coffers,  but  he 
wished  to  do  it  rapidly,  and  to  effect  this  it  seemed  to  him 
necessary  to  squeeze  the  life  out  of  his  workmen.  He  accord- 
ingly made  his  hours  of  labor  longer  than  those  of  any  other 
employer,  and  boasted  that  he  paid  less  than  they  did  ;  had 
he  heard  of  any  who  paid  still  less,  he  would  have  further 
reduced  his  scale  of  wages.  There  are  many  such  employ- 
2 


1 8  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

ers  as  Mr.  Merton  in  England  and  in  America,  who  never 
consider  those  whom  they  employ  and  are  anxious  only  to 
build  up  enormous  fortunes,  caring  nothing  for  the  interests 
of  the  men  v/ho  give  the  sweat  of  their  brows  so  that  their 
masters  may  live  in  luxury.  Their  employes  too  often  can 
not  clothe  or  feed  their  families  properly,  yet  do  not  seek  for 
work  elsewhere,  preferring  rather  to  suffer  from  the  ills  they 
have  than  fly  to  others  that  they  wot  not  of. 

It  is  wonderful  how  that  little  island  of  Great  Britain 
can  accomphsh  so  much  in  a  year  with  her  machinery  !  Her 
operatives  do  the  work  of  a  thousand  million  of  people, 
which  is  more  than  one  half  of  the  population  of  the  earth. 
This  great  labor  power  benefits  the  whole  world  and  is  the 
ground-work  of  England's  success,  for  her  commerce  min- 
isters to  the  wants  and  luxuries  of  mankind  far  more  than 
that  of  any  other  nation.  Her  merchants,  like  those  of  an- 
cient Tyre,  are  clothed  in  purple  ;  her  master  manufactur- 
ers dwell  in  palaces  ;  while  from  the  farthest  corners  of  the 
earth,  every  nation,  great  and  small,  pours  into  her  lap  their 
gold,  silver,  precious  stones,  and  luxuries. 

But  at  what  a  sacrifice  is  all  this  done !  Task-masters 
exist  in  England's  factories  who  are  as  cruel  and  oppress- 
ive as  Mr.  Merton,  one  of  the  many  tyrants  who  hold  the 
lives  of  millions  in  their  hands.  Houses  they  must  build 
to  display  their  opulence  ;  their  rent-rolls  must  be  kept  up, 
though  the  people  fill  the  land  with  the  cry  for  bread.  The 
manufacturers  know  that  there  are  thousands  more  who 
stand  in  such  need  that  they  will  willingly  occupy  the  places 
made  vacant  by  starvation  and  death,  caused  by  this  drain 
upon  the  working  classes  who  receive  no  fair  equivalent  for 
the  wealth  which  they  have  had  so  great  a  part  in  making. 
It  would  be  equally  just  to  take  this  wealth  from  the  poor 
at  the  point  of  the  bayonet  as  to  wring  it  from  them  by  the 
methods  of  many  British  manufacturers. 

In  his  "  Inferno,"  Dante  found  a  place  for  all  kinds  of 
people  with  whom  he  was  contemporary,  but  there  is  yet  to 


ARTHUR  MRRTON.  I9 

be  discovered  a  suitable  inferno  for  those  who  have  risen  to 
opulence  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  poor  operatives,  who  are 
sacrificed  to  injustice,  and  while  unable  to  help  themselves 
are  dominated  by  the  stormiest  passions  of  the  mind,  which 
will  one  day  change  the  destinies  of  nations.  Hades  will  be 
well  peopled  in  time  by  the  sordid  oppressors  of  their  race, 
and  every  piece  of  gold  that  they  have  wrung  from  their 
fellow-beings  will  be  molten  fire  to  torment  them. 

We  trust  the  reader  will  pardon  this  digression,  but  think- 
ing over  the  wrongs  this  man  Merton  committed,  we  could 
not  help  a  reference  to  the  people  of  his  class  who  have 
accumulated  their  fortunes  so  unworthily.  His  persecution 
of  his  tenants  and  employes  was  notorious.  He  built  a  large 
number  of  tenement  houses  for  his  operatives,  for  which  he 
charged  exorbitant  monthly  rents,  and  woe  to  the  poor  fel- 
low who  was  in  arrears.  He  was  turned  out  neck  and  heels, 
his  furniture  distrained,  and  if  he  could  not  give  "  security 
for  good  behavior,"  as  Merton  called  it,  his  name  was  strick- 
en from  the  roll  of  employes,  no  matter  what  family  he 
happened  to  have,  or  what  their  condition  at  the  time.  Is 
there  any  wonder  that  Merton's  countenance  resembled  that 
of  a  wolf  } 

A  clergyman  of  the  Established  Church  in  Lyneham  had 
lost  his  wife  about  the  time  Mr.  Merton  came  to  that  vicin- 
ity, and  was  left  with  three  daughters  who  were  being  edu- 
cated under  their  father's  eye.  Mr.  I^ester  was  what  might 
be  called  a  rollicking  parson.  He  had  married  a  beautiful 
girl  of  Italian  extraction,  and  though  until  her  death  he  had 
led  a  quiet  life,  after  this  time  he  gave  himself  up  to  what 
many  would  call  evil  ways.  Making  acquaintance  with  the 
sporting  gentlemen  of  the  county,  he  rode  with  the  hounds, 
joined  shooting-parties,  and  spent  many  convivial  hours 
with  them  at  suppers.  Some  of  his  graver  friends,  indeed, 
remonstrated  with  him  about  his  too  worldly  proceedings, 
but  otherwise  he  was  so  popular  and  preached  such  good  ser- 
mons that  most  persons  overlooked  his  backsliding. 


20  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

One  day  Mr.  Lester  called  upon  Mr.  Merton,  who  re- 
ceived him  cordially,  much  to  the  surprise  of  the  clergyman, 
who  had  heard  that  Merton  never  treated  any  one  politely. 
He  was  very  glad  to  find  the  manufacturer  in  an  amiable 
mood,  as  he  had  a  favor  to  ask  which  he  feared  would  be 
refused.  After  spending  half  an  hour  together  very  pleas- 
antly, in  which  time  Mr.  Merton  exhibited  no  impatience,  Mr. 
Lester  rose  to  go.  Mr.  Merton  cordially  extended  his  hand, 
and  wishing  him  good-day,  said  :  "  I  am  happy  to  have 
made  your  acquaintance,  and  shall  be  glad  if  I  can  be  of 
service  to  you," 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  the  rector,  "  you  can  be  of  service  to 
me,  and  I  am  going  to  ask  a  favor.  I  should  have  done  so 
before,  but  feared  to  trespass  upon  your  kindness." 

''  You  are  welcome,  Mr.  Lester — say  the  word,  and  any 
favor  that  you  may  ask  will  be  granted,"  was  Merton's 
reply. 

Mr.  Lester  was  amazed.  This  was  not  the  kind  of  per- 
son he  had  expected  to  meet,  Mr.  Merton  having  been 
painted  as  the  most  disagreeable  man  in  the  county.  "  You 
are  too  kind,  Mr.  Merton,"  he  said.  "  This  is  indeed  unex- 
pected. I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  allow  me  to  shoot  in  your 
preserves,  understanding  that  you  do  not  shoot  yourself." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "by  all  means. 
Shoot  whenever  you  choose,  and  take  any  friend  with  you, 
for  shooting  alone  must  be  stupid  business.  I  am  no 
sportsman,  but  I  set  great  store  by  my  game  preserves,  and 
do  not  allow  everybody  to  shoot  over  them.  To  show  you 
the  care  I  take  of  my  game,  I  will  tell  you  that  I  have  in- 
closed my  preserves  with  a  heavy  paling  seven  feet  high.  A 
rabbit  can  not  get  out  nor  a  poacher  get  in.  Besides,  I  have 
three  game-keepers  who  ride  around  day  and  night.  I  have 
never  caught  but  one  poacher,  and  I  had  him  transported." 

The  rector  winced  a  little  at  the  idea  of  so  severe  a  pun- 
ishment for  so  small  an  offense,  but  said  nothing  for  fear 
Mr.  Merton  would  revoke  his  permission.     He  bade    Mr. 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  21 

Merton  good-day  and  took  his  departure,  assured  by  Mer- 
ton  that  the  visit  would  soon  be  returned. 

Mr.  Lester's  eldest  daughter  was  a  beautiful  girl,  just 
eighteen,  and  the  image  of  her  mother  at  that  age.  She  had 
just  "  come  out,"  if  it  could  be  called  coming  out  where  the 
life  of  a  young  girl  was  so  little  changed,  but  she  could  at- 
tend parties  and  receive  the  attention  of  young  gentlemen. 

Julia  Lester  was  the  belle  of  Lyneham,  and  when  she 
appeared  at  an  entertainment  was  sure  to  be  surrounded 
with  beaux  claiming  her  hand  for  a  dance,  for  though  her 
father  was  a  clergyman,  he  denied  her  no  pleasure.  He 
was  too  gay  himself  to  deny  gayety  to  others.  At  the  end 
of  six  months  half  the  young  gentlemen  in  her  set  had  fallen 
deeply  in  love  with  Julia. 

Among  the  number  was  a  handsome  youth  named  Eustis 
Ferris,  who  followed  her  like  a  shadow,  and  at  last,  overcome 
with  love,  proposed  and  was  accepted.  When  spoken  to  by 
Ferris,  Mr.  Lester  acquiesced  in  the  engagement  on  condi- 
tion that  the  young  man  should  engage  in  business,  and  if 
at  the  end  of  two  years  he  was  in  a  position  to  support  a 
wife,  he  would  consent  to  the  marriage.  This  was  joy 
enough  to  the  young  lovers  who  wished  for  nothing  more 
than  to  see  each  other  every  day  and  walk  at  eve  along  the 
banks  of  the  beautiful  Avon. 

The  father  of  young  Ferris  lived  three  miles  from  Lyne- 
ham,  being  in  comfortable  circumstances,  owning  a  good 
house  and  one  hundred  acres  of  land.  He  was  of  literary 
tastes  and  quiet  habits,  mixing  but  little  with  the  county  gen- 
tlemen, but  he  was  devoted  to  his  son  and  gave  him  all  the 
pleasures  his  means  would  allow.  Eustis  had  received  a 
fair  education,  and  had  been  carefully  instructed  in  keeping 
accounts,  "for,"  said  his  father,  "a  young  man  who  thor- 
oughly understands  book-keeping  need  never  starve." 

When  informed  of  the  engagement  by  his  son,  Mr.  Fer- 
ris looked  solemn,  but  Eustis  put  his  arms  around  him, 
and  said:    "  Dear  father,  do  not  throw  a  cloud  over  my 


22  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

fondest  hopes,  for  there  are  too  many  clouds  around  us 
already.  We  are  not  to  be  married  for  two  years  yet,  and 
I  have  to  gain  means  that  will  enable  me  to  support  a  wife." 
On  these  terms  his  father  consented,  and  promised  to  assist 
him  in  obtaining  a  position,  agreeing  also  that  the  young 
couple  might  live  with  him,  where  they  would  be  provided 
for.  All  this  made  the  lovers  very  happy,  but  where  was 
the  position  to  come  from  ?  Eustis  did  not  want  to  go  far 
from  Lyneham,  while  his  father  thought  of  placing  him  in 
the  counting-house  of  a  friend  in  London.  At  last  it  was 
determined  to  try  and  obtain  an  appointment  in  the  Merton 
mills. 

Accordingly  Mr.  Ferris  called  at  the  manufacturer's 
house,  near  the  factories,  to  consult  him  on  the  subject.  Mr. 
Merton  had  so  far  received  few  visits  from  the  gentlemen  of 
the  county.  They  did  not  fancy  his  appearance,  and  what 
they  heard  of  him  was  not  in  his  favor.  It  had  been  re- 
ported that  he  had  said,  "  None  of  the  county  snobs  shall 
ever  shoot  over  my  grounds."  But  after  living  so  long  with 
very  few  callers  he  was  rather  glad  to  find  a  visitor  in  Mr. 
Ferris.  The  latter  had  provided  himself  with  letters  from 
responsible  people  in  favor  of  his  son,  among  them  a  very 
strong  one  from  the  Reverend  Mr.  Lester. 

Mr.  Ferris  sent  up  his  card,  and  was  shown  into  Mr. 
Merton's  sitting-room,  where  the  latter  was  examining  some 
ledgers,  for  he  scrutinized  every  account  himself.  Mr.  Mer- 
ton rose  when  his  visitor  entered  the  apartment,  and  scanned 
him  closely  from  under  his  spectacles,  then  seeing  that  Mr. 
Ferris  was  a  gentleman  he  advanced  to  meet  him,  and  after 
a  preliminary  conversation  asked  to  what  he  was  indebted 
for  the  honor  of  his  visit. 

Mr,  Ferris  handed  his  host  the  letters  of  recommendation 
for  Eustis,  saying,  "These  will  explain  all." 

Mr.  Merton  read  the  letters,  and  when  he  came  to  that 
of  Mr.  Lester  looked  at  it  carefully.  "Ah,"  he  said,  "that 
will  do.     I  will  take  great  pleasure  in  serving  your  son. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  23 

My  second  accountant  leaves  me  next  week,  and  I  will  give 
him  the  place.  The  salary  is  sufficient  for  a  young  man 
with  simple  habits.  It  is  two  hundred  and  forty  pounds  a 
year,  with  a  prospect  of  promotion,  and  an  opportunity  open 
to  him,  if  he  suits,  of  becoming  travehng  agent  at  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty  pounds  a  year  and  his  expenses." 

Delighted  with  the  offer,  Mr.  Ferris  grasped  Mr.  Merton's 
hand  and  thanked  him  again  and  again  for  his  kindness,  but 
he  did  not  notice  the  wolfish  expression  that  spread  over 
Merton's  face  the  while— who  had  his  reasons  for  being  so 
generous. 

Mr.  Ferris  hastened  home  to  impart  the  good  news  to 
his  son,  who,  when  he  heard  it,  seemed  to  be  floating  in  Ely- 
simn.  He  hurried  to  his  betrothed  to  tell  her  of  his  good 
fortune,  saying  :  "  It  will  not  be  my  fault,  darling,  if  in  less 
than  two  years  we  shall  be  united  to  part  no  more  in  this 
life."  Never  was  there  a  happier  pair  since  the  advent  of 
Adam  and  Eve  in  paradise. 

At  the  appointed  time  Eustis  Ferris  assumed  the  duties 
of  second  accountant  in  Mr.  Merton's  mills.  The  work  was 
laborious,  for  he  was  doing  the  duty  of  two  men,  but  he 
cared  nothing  for  that— the  prospects  before  him  looked  so 
bright  that  he  would  have  undertaken  twice  the  amount  of 
labor  if  required  to  do  so. 

One  day  Mr.  Merton  called  at  the  rectory.  When  he 
was  shown  into  the  parlor  Julia  was  seated  at  the  piano  play- 
ing a  waltz,  but  rose  gracefully  to  receive  the  visitor.  Mer- 
ton was  dazzled  with  her  beauty  though  he  had  previously 
seen  her  on  the  street,  and  also  on  her  father's  hunter,  which 
she  rode  like  an  expert,  showing  her  figure  to  great  advan- 
tage, but  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  vision  of  loveliness 
which  greeted  him.  For  the  first  time  his  heart  was  touched, 
and  he  said  to  himself,  "  I'll  marry  that  girl  if  it  costs  me 
half  my  fortune,"  while  she  thought  to  herself,  ''  What  a  dis- 
agreeable looking  man  !  " 

Shortly  after  this   interview  Mr.  Merton  heard  of   the 


24  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

engagement  of  Julia  and  Eustis,  and  it  was  after  he  had 
obtained  this  knowledge  that  Mr.  Ferris  sought  the  appoint- 
ment for  his  son.  Merton's  heart  leaped  for  joy,  for  he  saw 
a  chance  to  carry  out  his  newly  formed  plans. 

A  year  had  nearly  gone  by  since  the  engagement  of  Julia 
and  Eustis,  and  they  seemed  wrapped  up  in  each  other.  Life 
was  all  coideur  de  rose,  and  there  was  not  a  cloud  visible  in 
their  sky ;  the  stars  shone  brighter  for  them  than  for  others, 
and  through  the  long  vista  of  years  they  saw  only  unalloyed 
happiness,  but  the  storm  was  gathering  and  would  soon 
burst  upon  their  unsuspecting  heads. 

Nine  months  after  Eustis  Ferris  entered  Mr.  Merton's 
employ,  the  manufacturer  sent  for  him  to  come  to  his  count- 
ing-room. He  wondered  what  his  employer  wanted,  but  an- 
ticipated no  fault-finding,  as  Mr.  Merton  had  always  treated 
him  with  kindness,  and  on  several  occasions  had  overlooked 
his  mistakes. 

When  Eustis  entered  the  office  he  found  Mr.  Merton 
sitting,  his  head  leaning  on  his  hand  and  with  a  pained  ex- 
pression on  his  face.  When  Eustis  stood  by  his  chair,  he 
looked  him  steadily  in  the  eye,  and  said  :  "  Mr.  Ferris,  I 
sent  for  you  to  say  that  I  do  not  require  your  services, 
and  that  after  to-day  you  will  be  no  longer  in  my  employ- 
ment." 

At  this  curt  dismissal  Eustis's  face  burned  with  indigna- 
tion, and  his  eyes  flashed.  "  What  has  happened,  Mr.  Mer- 
ton," he  said,  *^  to  cause  this  abrupt  dismissal — which  will  dis- 
grace me  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  unless  you  assign  reasons 
that  will  not  reflect  on  my  honor  ? "  and  tears  sprung  to  his 
eyes. 

"  Unfortunately,"  answered  Mr.  Merton,  ''  I  can  not  do 
that.  If  your  heart  does  not  tell  you  what  crime  you  have 
committed,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  do  so.  I  am  much  disap- 
pointed in  you,  and  you  must  leave  my  employ.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  I  can  not  recommend  you  to  any  one,  but  I  shall 
say  nothing  against  you,  and  if  any  one  should  inquire  why 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  2$ 

you  left  me,  I  shall  only  say  you  had  good  reasons  of  your 
own." 

''Crime!  did  you  say,  ^Ir.  Merton  ?  "  exclaimed  the  young 
man,  growing  pale.  "  Connect  my  name  with  crime  !  Who 
dares  do  that  ?  I  am  incapable  of  crime,  and  I  demand  to 
know  my  accuser  !  My  God  !  this  will  kill  my  father.  Tell 
me,  sir,  who  is  my  accuser  ? " 

"It  would  be  well,  Mr.  Ferris,"  replied  Merton,  "if  chil- 
dren would  oftener  think  what  effect  their  ill  conduct  will 
have  on  their  parents.  It  might  prevent  them  from  commit- 
ting misdeeds  to  mar  their  lives.  Your  hopes  of  success  in 
this  part  of  the  world  are  over.  I  could  not  conscientiously 
allow  you  to  receive  employment  in  the  establishment  of 
some  trusting  person,  and  should  be  obliged  to  inform  him 
that  you  were  unworthy  of  confidence,  but  if  you  choose  to 
depart  hence  and  seek  employment  abroad,  I  shall  never 
open  my  lips  about  you." 

''Who  is  my  accuser?  "  demanded  Eustis. 

"/am,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "the  only  one  who  knows  of 
your  crime,  and  if  you  are  wise  you  will  take  my  advice. 
Leave  the  country  and  mark  out  for  yourself  a  new  life  in 
some  place  where  you  are  not  known." 

"  But,"  said  Eustis,  flashing  up,  "  I  am  not  going  to  sub- 
mit to  this  treatment.  You  say  you  know  of  a  crime  I  have 
committed.  I  will  not  rest  under  such  a  charge  from  any 
man,  and  I  demand  that  you  prove  your  charge,  or  my  father 
will  bring  suit  against  you  for  defamation  of  character.  It 
is  not  in  my  nature  to  commit  a  crime.  I  belong  to  an  hon- 
orable family  whose  record  is  as  pure  as  snow." 

Mr.  Merton  rose  up  in  wrath,  his  jaws  snapping,  his  short, 
wiry  hair  bristling,  and  his  eyes  shining  with  a  fierce  light. 
"Look  here,  young  man,"  he  exclaimed,  "do  not  push  me 
too  far,  or  you  will  rue  it.  I  offer  you  a  chance  to  escape 
punishment  by  going  away  and  commencing  a  new  life,  and 
you  defy  me.  Now,  mark  my  words.  I  can  send  you  to 
prison  and  hard  labor,  if  I  like.     I  do  not  want  to  do  this 


26  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

as  you  are  young  and  may  reform,  but,  so  help  me  God, 
if  you  defy  me  again  I  will  expose  you  as  a  thief  and  a 
forger  !  " 

Eustis  turned  deadly  pale,  staggered  to  a  seat,  and  burst 
into  tears.  "Oh,  heavens!"  he  cried,  *'am  I  to  be  con- 
demned unheard  ?  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  such  a 
charge  ? — a  charge  that  will  utterly  ruin  me  unless  I  can 
prove  my  innocence."  He  brushed  the  tears  from  his  eyes, 
and  said  :  "  Before  Heaven,  I  am  as  innocent  of  anything 
wrong  as  the  child  unborn  ! " 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  but  wait  a  moment,"  and 
he  took  from  his  desk  a  draft  for  one  hundred  pounds  ster- 
ling drawn  on  the  Bank  of  Commerce,  in  London ;  a  sheet 
of  paper  with  the  name  of  John  Merton  written  on  it  in  some 
twenty  places,  fac-similes  of  Mr  Merton's  handwriting ;  a 
piece  of  tissue  paper  with  the  same  fac-similes ;  and  a  block 
of  box-wood  on  which  the  name  was  carved.  Laying  these 
upon  the  table  before  him  and  keeping  his  hand  on  them,  he 
said  :  "  Mr.  Ferris,  these  were  all  found  in  your  desk,  except 
this  draft,  and  I  want  to  know  who  could  have  put  them 
there  but  yourself.  And  look  at  this  check-book.  A  check 
cut  from  the  back  of  the  book  in  which  this  one  fits  and  yet 
no  entry  made  of  it." 

Eustis  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment  at  the  chain  of 
evidence  against  him,  but  indignantly  repelled  the  charge, 
and  again  declared  his  innocence. 

"  But  who  will  believe  you  in  the  face  of  this  overwhelm- 
ing proof?"  asked  Mr.  Merton. 

*'  Heaven  only  knows,"  said  Eustis,  **  how  I  am  to  repel 
this  charge.  How  do  I  know  that  the  first  accountant,  who 
left  you  last  week,  and  to  whose  place  you  promoted  me, 
did  not  play  me  this  trick .''  " 

''For  the  reason,"  Merton  replied,  "that  he  left  me  to 
take  a  better  place,  and  with  strong  recommendations  from 
me.  Had  he  stayed  this  would  not  have  happened.  He  had 
charge  of  the  check-book  and  the  bank  account,  which  were 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  2/ 

transferred  to  you,  and,  besides,  what  cause  of  quarrel  had 
he  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  called  him  a  sneak,  and  threatened  to  slap  his  face 
for  speaking  disrespectfully  of  a  lady  friend  of  mine,"  said 

Eustis. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Merton,  ^'  another  trait  in  your  charac- 
ter I  did  not  know,  and  not  a  very  creditable  one  by  any 
means.  Here  is  a  letter  from  the  late  first  accountant,  and 
it  will  not  help  you.     Read  it." 

Eustis  had  now  become  quite  calm.  He  saw  that  he  was 
in  the  toils  and  that  it  would  require  all  his  presence  of  mind 
to  extricate  him  from  what  he  knew  to  be  a  plot.    The  letter 

read  as  follows  : 

London,  December  2,  18 — . 

*' Sir  :  I  have  received  your  letter  of  the  30th  ultimo. 
If  you  remember,  when  I  left  your  service  I  handed  you  the 
bank  account,  balanced  to  the  day  I  gave  up  my  place.  The 
check  you  refer  to  has  been  drawn  since  I  left. 

"  You  ask  my  opinion  of  Mr.  Ferris  and  whether  he  is 
capable  of  committing  such  a  deed.  I  consider  him  capa- 
ble of  anything. 

*'  I  rem.ain,  respectfully  yours, 

"  Edward  Harmer." 

This  letter  almost  crushed  Eustis.  It  appeared  that 
there  was  no  escape  for  him  from  penal  servitude  if  the 
matter  was  brought  before  a  court.  Looking  Mr.  Merton 
calmly  in  the  face,  he  handed  back  the  letter,  and  said: 
*'The  evidence  against  me  is  very  strong,  sir,  and  at  present 
I  have  no  way  of  proving  my  innocence,  but  the  day  will 
come  when  I  can  be  even  with  my  enemies.  I  must  say 
that  you  have  not  been  unkind  in  this  matter,  and  to  save 
great  distress  to  my  father  and  friends,  I  accept  your  terms, 
and  will  leave  this  place  until  such  time  as  my  innocence  is 
made  plain.  If  you  so  will  it,  the  world  v/ill  be  no  wiser  of 
this  charge  against  me,  but,  oh  !   sir,  this  is  death  to  me  and 


28  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

the  renouncement  of  all  my  hopes  on  earth.  I  beg  of  you, 
sir,  not  to  condemn  me  in  your  heart,  though  the  evidence 
is  so  strong  against  me." 

"You  are  acting  wisely,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  ''and  now  I 
will  bid  you  good  morning.  You  will  be  allowed  a  month 
to  remain  in  the  county  and  to  make  your  arrangements  for 
leaving.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  go  to  Australia.  There 
you  will  find  an  excellent  opening  for  young  men  of  your 
ability,''  emphasizing  the  last  word  with  a  sneer. 

Eustis,  however,  did  not  notice  the  sneer,  but  took  his 
leave,  his  heart  crushed  and  the  w^orld  looking  dark  all 
around  him.  There  was  no  silver-lined  cloud  in  his  sky  to 
brighten  the  dull  journey  before  him,  and  he  felt  like  ending 
his  days  by  jumping  into  the  Avon,  but  he  reflected  that  a 
brave  man  should  scorn  to  throw  away  the  life  God  had 
given  him.  He  determined  to  place  his  trust  in  that  kind 
Providence  in  which  he  had  always  had  perfect  faith,  and  to 
live  on  till  such  time  as  his  innocence  could  be  made  man- 
ifest. 

He  was  amazed  at  the  chain  of  evidence  against  him, 
and,  worst  of  all,  he  remembered  that  he  was  seen  at  the 
Bank  of  Commerce  on  the  day  on  which  the  draft  was 
drawn,  Mr.  Merton  having  sent  him  up  to  London  to  redeem 
some  notes.  One  thing  troubled  him — would  Mr.  Merton 
accept  the  forged  check  ?  If  he  did  not,  the  bank  would 
have  him  arrested,  and  his  case  would  be  just  as  bad  as  be- 
fore. He  turned  back,  re-entered  the  office  and  found  Mr. 
Merton  looking  out  of  the  window,  with  a  smile  upon  his 
face. 

"I  came  to  ask  you,  sir,"  said  Eustis,  "if  you  intend  to 
redeem  that  check,  for  if  you  do  not  I  shall  fall  into  the 
clutches  of  the  law  through  the  bank  authorities.  I  will 
work  my  life  out  until  I  pay  you  back  the  amount." 

"It  has  been  acknowledged,"  said  Merton,  "and  the  ac- 
count balanced.  Take  my  advice  and  go  to  Australia.  I 
will  give  you  a  letter  that  will  help  you." 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


29 


"  God  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Eustis,  "  for  your  kindness." 
With  tears  in  his  eyes  he  once  more  withdrew. 

Eustis  went  straight  to  his  father's  house,  and  going  to 
his  room,  flung  himself  on  the  bed.  He  had  kept  up  bravely 
while  there  was  a  chance  of  any  one  seeing  him,  but  when 
alone  in  his  chamber  nature  asserted  itself  and  he  burst  into 
tears.  At  last  he  fell  asleep,  and  only  awoke  when  the  maid 
came  to  his  door  and  announced  dinner.  He  arose  and 
bathed  his  head  in  cool  water  until  all  evidences  of  tears 
had  been  erased  from  his  eyes,  and  went  to  meet  his  father 
with  a  smiling  face,  though  his  heart  was  ready  to  break. 

The  dinner  passed  pleasantly  enough  though  Eustis  could 
hardly  answer  his  father's  questions,  and  he  was  very  glad 
when  the  meal  ended  and  he  could  withdraw  to  his  room. 
He  told  his  father  that  he  was  not  feeling  well,  and  the 
latter  asked  no  questions. 

Eustis  had  not  seen  Julia  that  day.  Since  they  had  been 
engaged  he  had  made  it  a  rule,  and  it  was  his  pleasure,  to 
call  and  see  her  every  day,  and  to  walk  with  her  along  the 
banks  of  the  river  until  the  sun  had  sunk  far  below  the  ho- 
rizon, but  to-day  he  had  not  the  courage  to  meet  her  for  fear 
that  he  should  betray  his  feelings  and  give  her  cause  for  un- 
happiness,  so  he  wrote  her  a  note  full  of  love  and  devotion,  and 
explained  his  absence  on  the  ground  of  a  slight  indisposition. 

Next  morning  when  Eustis  came  down  to  breakfast  he 
found  his  father  so  engrossed  in  reading  letters  that  he 
scarcely  noticed  his  son's  presence.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed, 
"  Look  here,  Eustis,  this  is  something  that  concerns  you." 
He  handed  his  son  a  letter.  At  first  Eustis's  face  flushed; 
he  feared  that  it  was  something  in  relation  to  the  charges 
Mr.  Merton  had  made  against  him,  but  he  found  that  it  was 
a  letter  from  Mr.  Smedley  offering  him  (  Eustis  )  a  position 
in  a  bank  in  Melbourne,  Australia,  as  accountant  at  a  salary 
of  seven  hundred  pounds  a  year.  Eustis  read  the  letter  and 
then  stopped  to  think  it  over. 

''  I  am  afraid  that  will  not   suit  you,  Eustis,"   said  the 


30 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


father  ;  "  it  will  take  you  too  far  from  Julia.  But  it  is  a  tempt- 
ing offer  that  may  lead  you  to  Fortune.  That  fickle  jade 
does  not  often  open  her  arms  so  affectionately  to  a  young 
man  in  your  position.  You  ought  to  take  it  ;  in  two  years 
you  can  return  and  marry  Julia  and  settle  in  Australia, 
which  is  now  the  English  Eldorado." 

Eustis  had  made  up  his  mind.  He  had  thought  a  great 
deal  in  the  last  ten  minutes,  and  saw  an  escape  from  his 
secret  enemy,  who  had  so  completely  enveloped  him  in  his 
toils.  This  foe  could  hardly  pursue  him  to  Australia,  and 
if  he  did,  perchance  would  be  discovered  and  punished,  but 
it  tore  his  heart,  when  he  thought  of  the  anguish  his  loved 
Julia  would  feel  at  this  separation.  For  himself  he  cared 
not  as  long  as  she  did  not  know  of  the  charge  against  him, 
which  was  backed  by  a  mass  of  evidence  he  could  not  dis- 
prove, having  nothing  to  rely  upon  but  his  own  word  and 
the  character  for  integrity  he  had  always  maintained.  The 
offer  of  Mr.  Smedley  came  in  the  nick  of  time.  It  afforded 
Eustis  an  excuse  for  going  to  Australia,  and  a  reason  for 
leaving  his  place  at  the  Merton  mills. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  this  will  suit  me  exactly.  The  fact 
is,  I  have  long  been  tired  of  the  Merton  mills,  where  I  am 
worked  to  death,  and  receive  a  small  salary,  with  little 
chance  of  advancement,  and  no  hope  of  making  money 
enough  to  support  a  wife.  In  Australia  it  is  different,  but  I 
want  you  to  obtain  from  Mr.  Merton  a  general  letter  of  rec- 
ommendation. Tell  him  I  shall  leave  Lyneham  to  seek  other 
employment.  Do  not  mention  that  I  am  going  to  Australia, 
but  give  him  the  impression  that  America  is  my  destination. 
I  have  my  reasons  for  not  wishing  him  to  know.  I  see  that 
Mr.  Smedley  says  my  passage  will  be  paid  to  Australia,  and 
if  you  will  give  me  a  hundred  pounds  to  keep  me  after  my 
arrival  there,  I  shall  make  my  arrangements  and  start  as 
soon  as  possible." 

Mr.  Ferris  was  pleased  at  his  son's  determination,  and 
promised  him  all  that  he  had  asked  for. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  3 1 

*'  Now,"  said  Eustis,  "  is  the  hardest  task  of  all — parting 
with  Julia,  and  I  must  do  it  at  once,  at  least  let  her  know 
my  intentions.  It  may  seem  like  desertion,  but  I  hope  to 
reconcile  her  to  it."    So  saying  he  started  for  the  parsonage. 

Shortly  after  his  son's  departure,  Mr.  Ferris  was  on  his 
way  to  see  Mr.  Merton,  whom  he  found  in  his  office,  and 
that  gentleman  received  him  cordially. 

''  Mr.  Merton,"  said  Mr.  Ferris,  "  I  have  come  to  ask 
a  favor  of  you.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  my  son,  and  I 
want  you  to  continue  your  kindness.  He  tells  me  he  is 
going  to  leave  you  to  seek  his  fortune  abroad,  and  I  want 
to  ask  of  you  the  favor  to  give  him  a  general  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  help  him  on  his  way.  I  will  procure  others 
for  him  from  my  friends,  and  I  think  he  will  have  no  trouble 
in  getting  on." 

"Whither  is  he  going?  "  said  Mr.  Merton,  his  face  light- 
ing up. 

"To  America,"  he  replied. 

"Ah,  that  is  well,"  said  Mr.  Merton  ;  "he  could  not  se- 
lect a  better  place.  A  young  man  of  his  ability  will  do  well 
in  that  country,  and  I  will  take  pleasure  in  granting  your 
request.  Your  son  and  I  have  talked  over  his  future  pros- 
pects, and  I  am  glad  to  see  that  he  has  listened  to  my  ad- 
vice. If  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  write  the  letter  you  asked 
for,"  and  with  that  he  turned  to  his  table  and  wrote  : — 

"  Lyneham,  December  6,  18 — . 
"  To  whom  it  may  concern  :  This  is  to  certify  that  Eus- 
tis Ferris  has  served  in  my  employ,  as  first  and  second  ac- 
countant, and  has  shown  himself  to  be  of  marked  ability, 
always  taking  as  much  interest  in  my  affairs  as  if  they  were 
his  own.  To  whatever  part  of  the  world  he  may  go,  he  car- 
ries with  him  my  best  wishes,  and  I  shall  always  remember 
with  pleasure  his  many  fine  qualities,  and  will  indorse  his 
application  for  any  promotion  to  which  he  may  aspire. 

"Respectfully,  John  Merton." 


32  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

This  letter  was  written  in  a  large,  bold  hand,  which  no 
one  would  forget  who  had  once  seen  it ;  indeed,  Mr.  Ferris 
remarked  to  him  that  it  was  the  most  peculiar  hand  he  had 
ever  seen. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "I  pride  myself  on  my  hand- 
writing. I  think  it  is  an  idex  of  a  man's  character.  I  never 
saw  a  man  who  wrote  a  small,  mean  hand  who  ever  amounted 
to  anything."  Then  he  folded  the  letter  and  addressed  it  to 
"  Eustis  Ferris,  Esq.,  late  first  accountant  in  Merton's  mills, 
near  Lyneham,  Wiltshire." 

Mr.  Ferris  took  his  departure  with  many  thanks  to  Mer- 
ton for  his  kindness,  and  when  the  door  closed  the  wolfish 
countenence  of  the  latter  was  wreathed  in  smiles.  "Thank 
my  stars,"  he  said  to  himself,  "my  plans  have  worked  so 
admirably  that  I  think  I  must  have  some  kind  fairy  watch- 
ing over  me,  and  now  when  that  fellow  is  in  America  I  will 
lay  out  my  lines  so  that  he  will  never  return,  and  then  I  will 
marry  this  beautiful  girl,  who  is  totally  unfit  for  the  poverty 
she  would  share  with  him.  It  will  be  strange  if  she  does 
not  bite  at  my  million  sterling,  with  the  prospect  of  greater 
wealth  in  the  future."  With  these  pleasant  reflections,  he 
turned  to  his  ledger,  and  counted  up  his  gains  for  the  last 
month,  which  were  enormous. 

"  I  have  settled  that  fellow,"  he  chuckled  to  himself. 
"  If  he  ever  returns  to  this  country  I  will  have  him  tried  for 
forgery,  and  he  will  find  that  he  can  not  escape  from  that 
indictment.  It  would  have  been  better  had  he  gone  to  Aus- 
tralia, for  then  I  could  have  had  him  arrested  there  and  pre- 
vent his  ever  returning  to  England,  but  perhaps  it  is  as  well 
as  it  stands.  I  avoid  a  scandal  and  making  enemies  while 
I  gain  my  love.  I  will  maintain  the  character  of  a  noble, 
generous  man  who  let  a  forger  escape  rather  than  annoy  his 
friends. ' ' 

When  Eustis  arrived  at  the  parsonage  Julia  rushed  to  the 
door  to  receive  him.     He  looked  pale  and  haggard,  as  well 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  33 

he  might.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  been  parted  a  day 
since  their  engagement,  and  she  overwhelmed  him  with 
caresses.  His  heart  was  too  full  to  allow  him  to  speak,  and 
he  led  her  into  the  parlor  where  he  knew  they  would  be  un- 
molested, and  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  sofa,  he,  in  as  few 
words  as  possible,  told  her  the  unwelcome  news  of  his  in- 
tended departure.  She  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears,  and 
he  could  not  console  her.  She  was  beautiful  at  all  times, 
but  with  her  luminous  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  her  cheeks 
pale  with  anguish,  she  appeared  more  charming  than  ever. 
How  could  he  tear  himself  away  from  her  ?  At  one  time  he 
determined  to  stay  and  brave  the  charge  which  hung  over 
him,  but  he  thought  how  hopeless  would  be  the  attempt  to 
evade  the  evidence  against  him,  and  then  how  much  greater 
would  be  Julia's  anguish  to  have  him  arrested  on  a  charge 
of  forgery  that  would  part  them  forever,  while  as  matters 
stood  he  still  had  a  chance  of  proving  his  innocence,  which 
he  could  not  do  if  in  prison. 

While  Julia  lay  weeping  in  his  arms,  for,  poor  girl,  this 
was  her  first  grief,  he  held  her  close  to  his  heart  kissing  away 
her  tears.  His  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  form  in  loving  fond- 
ness. He  might  never  look  upon  her  again,  for  before  he 
could  return  to  claim  her  as  his  bride  those  beautiful  eyes 
might  be  closed  in  death.  He  never  thought  of  losing  her 
in  any  other  way.  As  he  saw  her  then,  so  he  saw  her  after- 
ward during  the  years  in  which  they  were  parted,  as  persons 
who  look  upon  the  sun  retain  its  image  on  the  retina  of  the 
eye  long  afterward  to  the  exclusion  of  other  objects.  Often 
in  after  life  the  remembrance  of  that  scene  brought  back  the 
recollection  of  his  lost  happiness  so  that  he  was  never  even 
touched  with  sentiment  for  any  other  living  being.  Julia 
was  his  ideal  woman,  the  angel  who  was  to  lead  him  to  a 
better  world.  That  idea  never  left  him,  and  though  often 
tempted  with  the  fragrance  of  the  wild  rose  upon  the  hill- 
side, he  clung  to  the  perfume  of  the  lily  which  brought  back 
to  him  the  memory  of  his  early  youth— of  the  girl  he  wor- 
3 


34  ARTHUR  ME R TON. 

shiped  with  a  hope  of  a  fairer  life  in  the  future  and  a  cer- 
tainty of  a  reunion  in  heaven. 

"  Why  do  you  go,  Eustis  ? "  exclaimed  Julia.  "  You 
have  a  good  place  with  Mr.  Merton,  and  he  has  promoted 
you  already.  He  will  continue  to  help  you,  and  we  will  have 
enough  to  be  happy  on.  Oh  !  do  not  leave  me  !  I  shall  die  if 
you  do.  Stay  with  Mr.  Merton.  Do  not  let  the  hopes  of  bet- 
tering yourself  tempt  you  to  go  so  far  away.  Where  do  you 
expect  to  go  1 "  She  looked  in  his  face  so  searchingly  that 
he  almost  determined  to  give  up  his  purpose,  but  then  he 
remembered  his  compact  with  Mr.  Merton.  He  could  not 
conceive  for  what  purpose  Merton  wanted  to  get  him  out  of 
the  country.  Perhaps  he  thought  it  the  only  way  to  shield 
him  from  his  hidden  enemy,  whoever  he  was,  but  somehow 
or  other  Eustis  had  conceived  a  distrust  for  his  late  employer 
he  could  not  conquer  and  for  which  he  could  not  account. 

*'  Darling,"  he,  said,  "  I  am  more  unhappy  than  you  can  be 
about  this  business,  but  it  can  not  be  helped.  There  are 
reasons  why  I  can  no  longer  stay  in  Mr.  Merton's  service. 
The  position  is  degrading — I  am  nothing  but  a  slave  there, 
and  the  work  is  killing  me.  I  have  reached  the  highest  sal- 
ary I  can  obtain  there,  and  you  know  how  far  that  will  go 
toward  keeping  house.  Indeed,  I  have  already  given  up  my 
place  in  the  Merton  mills,  and  have  accepted  a  position  in 
America."  He  was  so  anxious  not  to  have  it  known  by  any 
accident  that  he  was  bound  for  Australia  that  for  the  pres- 
ent he  would  not  even  tell  Julia  where  he  was  going.  There 
was  no  reasoning  with  her,  and  at  last  Eustis  tore  himself 
away  with  a  promise  to  return  in  the  morning,  his  heart 
almost  broken  at  witnessing  the  anguish  of  his  promised 
wife. 

On  examining  the  newspapers,  Eustis  found  that  the 
Peninsula  and  Oriental  Steamship  Company's  steamer  would 
sail  from  Southampton  in  three  days  for  Melbourne,  Aus- 
tralia. "The  sooner  this  is  over  the  better,"  he  thought, 
and  wrote  at  once  to  secure  a  passage.     He  had  few  arrange- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  35 

ments  to  make,  and  that  night  he  was  all  ready  to  start  at  a 
moment's  notice. 

We  will  pass  over  the  painful  scene  that  followed.  Julia 
at  last  consented  to  be  pacified  on  condition  that  Eustis 
would  return  in  a  year  and  take  her  with  him  to  share  his 
fortunes,  whatever  they  might  be.  She  was  ready  to  leave 
father  and  sisters  and  her  loved  home  to  be  with  him,  and 
she  made  him  give  so  many  promises  toward  the  desired  end 
that  he  could  scarcely  remember  them  all. 

He  was  to  send  his  letters  to  his  father  who  would  de- 
liver them  to  her  in  person,  and  his  father  would  also  for- 
ward her  letters  by  the  earliest  opportunity.  These  arrange- 
ments made,  Julia  cleared  her  eyes,  not  wishing  to  make  her 
lover  unhappy.  Mr.  Lester,  when  apprised  of  the  change 
in  Eustis's  circumstances,  highly  applauded  the  young  man's 
conduct  in  determining  to  strike  out  for  something  better 
than  a  clerkship  in  a  mill.  "  Who  knows,"  he  said,  "  but 
that  Eustis  may  become  a  great  banker  in  New  York  ? " 

The  parting  was  made  amid  sighs  and  tears  and  prom- 
ises such  as  are  universal  with  lovers.  Julia  watched  her 
Eustis's  receding  form  until  he  passed  from  sight,  then, 
closing  the  window,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  bed  and 
wept  until  sleep  fell  upon  her  eyelids,  and  for  a  time  her  sor- 
rows w^ere  buried  in  dreams  of  the  one  she  loved  best  in  the 
world. 

The  ni?ht  before  Eustis  left  he  informed  his  father  of 
the  charge  made  against  him  by  Mr.  Merton,  and,  though  Mr. 
Ferris  was  horrified  at  such  an  imputation  against  his  son,  he 
never  for  a  moment  doubted  his  integrity,  knowing  him  to  be 
the  soul  of  honor.  Mr.  Ferris  knew  the  world,  and  saw  at  once 
that  it  was  a  well  laid  plot  to  ruin  his  son,  one  in  which 
there  was  no  contradiction.  The  evidence  was  all  one  way, 
and  the  father  set  to  work  to  study  the  matter  out.  Far  into 
the  watches  of  the  night  did  he  lie  in  bed  thinking  over  every 
little  event  that  had  taken  place  in  the  last  year.  He  could 
not  positively  make  up  his  mind,  but  he  formed  a  theory  of 


36  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

his  own.  He  saw  that  his  son  was  in  the  toils  of  some 
devilish  enemy,  or  of  some  person  who  had  a  scheme  to 
carry  out.  The  coils  were  so  well  laid  that  he  saw  nothing 
for  Eustis  to  do  but  to  accept  Mr.  Merton's  advice  and  leave 
the  country  for  a  while,  at  least  until  such  time  as  the 
scheme  might  be  unraveled.  He  would  be  on  the  watch 
in  Eustis's  absence,  and  the  latter's  enemies,  whoever  they 
were,  thinking  themselves  safe,  might  expose  themselves.  So 
he  forwarded  his  son's  wishes,  keeping  up  a  cheerful  counte- 
nance, as  if  everything  in  the  world  went  well  with  him. 

The  last  adieus  were  said  between  Eustis  and  his  be- 
trothed, and  on  the  loth  of  December,  i8 — ,  the  P.  &  O. 
steamer  Kangaroo  sailed  from  Southampton  with  some 
two  hundred  passengers,  bound,  like  Eustis,  in  pursuit  of 
wealth.  The  exile  was  registered  on  the  passenger  list  as 
"  Eustis  Graham";  this  was  by  his  father's  advice,  who  had 
his  own  reasons  for  the  change  of  name.  For  the  present 
we  will  leave  him  to  make  such  acquaintances  among  the 
passengers  as  he  may  choose,  or  indulge  his  morbid  feelings 
over  the  injury  that  had  been  done  him  and  sent  him  an 
outcast  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  with  nothing  to  cheer  him 
but  the  hope  that  he  would  make  a  fortune  in  Australia 
and  return  once  more  to  claim  his  bride.  Hope  !  that 
delusive  power  which  has  led  so  many  astray  and  under 
which  so  many  thousands  have  sunk  by  the  wayside,  thirst- 
ing for  the  promised  happiness  snatched  from  their  lips  at 
the  moment  it  seemed  almost  within  their  grasp. 


CHAPTER  in. 


We  pass  over  three  months,  during  which  time  Eustis 
reached  Melbourne,  delivered  his  credentials  to  the  manager 
of  the  bank,  and  was  duly  installed.  A  month  after  he  left, 
his  father  was  taken  with  a  nervous  chill,  and,  after  lingering 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  37 

for  a  week,  fever  set  in  and  he  died.  In  his  sickness  Mr. 
Ferris  received  great  kindness  from  his  friends,  particularly 
Mr.  Lester  and  Mr.  Merton.  When  the  latter  entered  the 
room,  Mr.  Ferris,  in  a  feeble  voice,  said  :  "  Tell  me,  do  you 
think  my  son  guilty  of  the  dreadful  charge  brought  against 
him?     Why  could  you  not  crush  the  charge  at  once  ?  " 

"  I  tried,"  said  ^^lerton,  "  as  he  should  have  told  you.  I 
did  not  think  him  guilty,  believing  it  to  be  a  plot  by  some 
enemy  to  injure  him.  I  acknowledged  the  forged  check 
and  paid  it.  I  could  do  no  more  to  free  him  from  the 
charge,  but  the  plans  were  so  well  laid  that  I  advised  Eustis 
to  absent  himself  for  a  time,  to  allow  the  scoundrel,  whoever 
he  was,  to  unmask  himself.  I  think  I  have  a  clew  to  the 
villain  who  forged  my  name,  but  time  will  be  required  to 
unearth  him.  I  am  laying  a  trap  for  him  now  into  which  I 
think  he  will  fall,  but  do  not  let  this  matter  trouble  you. 
Your  son  is  out  of  harm's  v/ay,  while  his  enemy  is  in 
danger." 

Mr.  Ferris  pressed  his  hand,  and  said:  ''  Thank  you,  and 
may  God  bless  you;  but  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you.  I 
have  no  relatives  here  to  whom  I  can  trust  my  affairs.  I 
shall  leave  all  my  property  to  my  son,  and  I  want  you  to  act 
as  executor.  Can  you  not  get  a  solicitor  and  have  my  will 
drawn  up  .'" 

Mr.  Merton  "  was  too  pleased  to  perform  this  service  for 
his  dear  friend,"  and  proceeded  to  do  what  the  sick  man  de- 
sired. He  knew  that  Mr.  Ferris  had  not  long  to  live,  as  the 
attending  physician  had  informed  him  that  the  patient  had 
water  near  the  heart  (angina  pectoris),  and  that  there  was 
no  hope  for  him. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  !Merton  appeared  with  a  solicitor, 
the  will  was  drawn  leaving  the  estate  to  Eustis,  and  Mr.  Mer- 
ton was  appointed  sole  executor.  The  latter's  heart  leaped 
for  joy  when  the  will  was  executed,  for  he  saw  in  this  a 
stroke  of  good  fortune  which  would  help  him  in  his  nefarious 
designs.     At  the  end  of  the  week  Mr.  Ferris  died,  as  the 


38  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

medical  man  had  predicted.  Mr.  Merton  took  charge  of 
his  effects,  and  attended  to  the  burial  of  the  deceased  with 
as  much  care  as  if  he  had  been  his  own  brother.  Mr.  Lester 
preached  the  funeral  sermon,  and  his  three  daughters  attend- 
ed the  funeral. 

Here  was  fresh  cause  for  grief  for  Julia  Lester,  for  was 
not  the  dead  man  the  father  of  her  lover,  and  would  it  not 
distress  him  when  he  knew  it  ?  She  sat  down  amid  her  tears 
and  wrote  Eustis  an  account  of  his  bereavement.  But  how 
was  she  to  send  it  ?  Eustis  had  particularly  enjoined  upon 
her  not  to  send  her  letters  through  any  one  but  his  father, 
and  to  whom  was  she  to  go  .''  Her  own  father  did  not  know 
the  address  in  America,  so  the  letter  was  addressed  to  New 
York,  at  a  venture,  where  necessarily  it  lay  in  the  post-office 
uncalled  for,  and  eventually  reaching  the  dead-letter  office. 

Mr.  Merton  went  on  settling  the  estate  of  Mr.  Ferris,  but 
as  he  did  not  know  Eustis's  address,  he  also  wrote  a  letter  to 
him,  directed  to  New  York,  which  shared  the  fate  of  the 
former  communication,  and  so  matters  stood.  It  may  seem 
singular  that  Mr.  Ferris  should  have  appointed  Mr.  Merton 
as  his  executor,  particularly  as  the  latter  had  accused  his 
son  of  forgery,  but  then  Mr.  Merton  had  shown  every  dis- 
position to  befriend  Eustis,  and  given  him  such  a  strong  let- 
ter to  assist  him  that  he  could  not  help  thinking  the  manu- 
facturer was  a  good  man.  He  never  dreamed  that  Merton 
had  an  interest  to  get  rid  of  his  son  ;  besides  Merton  was  a 
man  of  v/ealth,  and  could  give  ample  security  for  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  estate.  Mr.  Ferris  also  thought  it  would 
be  making  a  strong  friend  for  Eustis,  in  case  these  unfortu- 
nate charges  should  ever  be  pressed  against  him.  Being 
appointed  as  executor  would  make  it  appear  that  Mr.  Fer- 
ris had  unbounded  confidence  in  his  son's  late  employer, 
for  which  the  latter  would  feel  grateful,  since  there  were  very 
few  of  the  county  gentry  who  would  take  any  notice  of 
Merton. 

It  was  nearly  four  months  since   Eustis  had  departed. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  39 

and  no  tidings  had  been  received  from  him,  to  the  great  dis- 
tress of  Julia  Lester  and  the  surprise  of  her  father,  who  be- 
came very  uneasy  about  the  absent  lover.  Julia  fretted  all  the 
time,  and  Mr.  Lester  worried  so  much  at  seeing  his  darliag 
daughter  in  such  a  depressed  condition  that  he  took  to  follow- 
ing the  hounds  more  than  ever  to  kill  care,  but  it  did  no 
good — the  parsonage  was  a  very  unhappy  home. 

At  the  end  of  four  months  a  letter  postmarked  "  Mel- 
bourne," came  directed  to  Mr.  Ferris,  and  was  put  into  the 
hands  of  the  executor,  who  opened  the  envelope  and  found 
two  letters,  one  to  Mr.  Ferris  and  the  other  to  Julia  Lester. 
Mr.  Merton  was  astonished  when  he  found  these  communi- 
cations from  Australia,  supposing  Eustis  to  be  in  New  York, 
and  he  wondered  what  it  all  meant.  He  had  been  misled — 
for  what  purpose  he  could  not  understand,  but  for  this  he 
did  not  care,  as,  go  where  he  would,  Eustis  was  in  his  power. 
Merton  smiled  bitterly  when  he  looked  at  the  letter  ad- 
dressed to  Julia,  which  he  opened  and  read.  He  could  not 
conceal  his  rage  at  the  fond  expressions  in  every  line  ;  and 
when  he  read,  "  In  a  year  I  shall  return  and  claim  my  love, 
to  be  parted  no  more  in  this  world,  for  I  am  on  the  road  to 
fortune,"  Merton's  face  grew  livid.  He  crumpled  the  let- 
ter in  his  hands,  and  threw  it  into  the  fire. 

What  would  not  Julia  Lester  have  given  to  have  read 
these,  to  her,  priceless  words  !  But  this  wretch  would  have 
seen  her  die  at  his  feet  rather  than  that  she  should  have  been 
made  happy  by  receiving  the  letter.  In  fact,  he  now  looked 
upon  her  as  his  own  property,  thinking  he  had  finally  got 
rid  of  his  rival,  for  he  did  not  suppose  Eustis  would  ever 
dare  to  approach  the  Lesters  in  any  way,  for  fear  of  their 
having  heard  the  charges  against  him. 

Mr.  Merton  was  furious  when  he  thought  of  the  terms 
of  endearment  used  by  Eustis  towards  Julia,  and  his  jaws 
snapped  together  more  loudly  than  ever.  He  walked  the 
floor  and  raved  like  a  madman.  In  his  whole  life  he  had 
never  before  known  anything  like  the  sentiment  of   love. 


40 


ARTHUR  MERTON, 


He  had  strong  passions  and  brutal  lusts,  and  he  had  never 
dreamed  that  there  existed  on  earth  such  pure  sentiments 
between  man  and  woman  as  were  expressed  in  that  letter — 
a  letter  that  might  have  been  published  to  the  world  and  read 
with  pleasure  by  those  who  can  appreciate  and  honor  the 
sanctity  of  love  existing  between  two  young  persons  who  have 
never  been  contaminated  by  mixing  with  impure  society  ; 
who  have  been  brought  up  in  the  country,  where  the  beauty 
of  nature  is  always  before  them,  the  grand  old  trees,  the 
lovely  flowers  that  carpet  the  meadows  and  moorlands,  and 
shine  like  drops  from  the  sun. 

Merton  saw,  on  reading  Eustis's  letter  to  Julia,  that  feel- 
ings were  expressed  to  which  he  was  a  stranger,  and  he 
thought,  "  How  can  I  win  this  beautiful  girl  ?  "  Eustis  com- 
muned with  her  as  if  he  were  writing  to  some  celestial  being 
who  had  left  her  abode  in  the  realms  of  bliss  to  come  on 
earth  and  minister  to  his  soul,  then  lead  him  to  heaven, 
where  they  would  be  forever  united.  He  was  not  writing 
to  a  human  being,  but  to  an  angel  as  pure  as  snow,  with  a 
presence  as  bright  as  the  morning  when  the  sun  begins  to 
light  up  the  eastern  horizon  with  his  golden  rays,  and  with  a 
halo  around  her  brows  shining  softer  than  the  moonbeams 
on  a  summer's  night. 

Merton  did  not  understand  such  love  as  this.  It  was 
all  new  to  him.  How  could  a  man  place  a  woman  on  a 
pedestal  and  worship  her  as  if  she  were  an  angel .?  The 
kind  of  love  he  knew  of  was  such  as  sultans  feel  for  the 
beautiful  Circassian  girls,  educated  by  their  parents  to  meet 
their  fate  and  sold  in  the  bazars  of  Constantinople  for  the 
harem — the  immorality  of  the  transaction  being  less  in  the 
case  of  the  Turk  from  the  fact  that  it  is  tolerated  by  his  re- 
ligion. 

Merton  fairly  gnashed  his  teeth.    ''  D n  him,"  he  said, 

"  I  will  make  him  so  black  before  I  have  done  with  him  that 
Julia  will  turn  from  him  in  horror.  Suppose  I  do  commit  a 
crime   to  get  rid  of  this  man !     What  is  a  crime  more  or  less 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  4 1 

to  me  who  have  committed  so  many  ?  When  he  is  sitting 
in  his  prison  cell  I  shall  be  in  the  arms  of  his  angel,  and 
find  her,  perhaps,  nothing  more  than  any  other  woman. 
All  this  stuff  is  bosh,  which  no  sensible  woman  should  read, 
and  it  is  just  as  well  in  the  fire  as  elsewhere." 

In  his  letter  to  his  father,  Eustis  merely  gave  an  outline 
of  his  voyage,  mentioned  his  arrival  at  his  destination,  his 
presenting  his  credentials,  and  installation  in  his  office,  not 
saying  where  the  office  was  or  what  its  character,  as  these 
details  were  known  to  his  father.  What  surprised  Merton 
was  that  the  letters  were  dated  "  New  York,"  while  the  en- 
velope bore  the  Melbourne  postmark.  He  mused  for  some 
moments,  and  said  to  himself  :  "  Eustis  is  in  Melbourne. 
He  suspects  me,  and  I  will  find  out  by  whom  he  is  employed 
and  crush  him.  I  will  take  means  to  inform  his  angel  of 
his  crime,  and  if  she  is  as  pure  as  he  seems  to  think  her,  she 
will  never  have  anything  more  to  do  with  a  forger.  But  I 
must  intercept  some  of  her  letters  to  him.  I  want  to  see  if 
he  is  as  much  of  an  angel  in  her  eyes  as  she  is  in  his." 

Thus  this  scoundrel  plotted  to  mar  the  lives  of  two  be- 
ings who  had  started  in  life  with  every  prospect  of  gaining 
God's  greatest  blessing,  the  union  of  two  hearts  that  could 
never  change,  but  God's  designs  for  the  happiness  of  his 
children  are  often  marred  by  the  imps  of  Hades  who,  wan- 
dering over  this  beautiful  earth,  delight  to  bring  discord  and 
ruin  upon  those  whom  their  Creator  has  blessed,  and  one  of 
these  imps  was  John  Merton,  who  was  in  reality  an  emis- 
sary from  the  devil. 

Merton  lost  no  time  in  putting  his  plans  into  execution. 
A  week  later  a  man  by  the  name  of  Kirby  Brush  was  in- 
stalled as  first  accountant  at  Merton's  mills.  Who  he  was, 
or  whence  he  came,  no  one  knew.  He  was  a  low-browed, 
sullen  individual,  stealthy  in  manner  and  unprepossessing  in 
every  respect.  When  he  reported  to  Mr.  Merton,  that  per- 
son eyed  him  sternly.  "  You  know  what  you  have  to  do," 
he  said,  "  and  see  that  you  do  it  well.    Here  is  a  copy  of  Far- 


42  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

ris's  hand-writing,"  handing  him  Eustis's  letter  to  his  father; 
"  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  making  a  fac-simile  with  that 
before  you.  Now,  do  not  fail  me,  or  I  will  put  you  back 
where  you  came  from." 

"I  won't  fail,"  said  Brush;  "  depend  on  that."  And  Mer- 
ton  left  him  to  study  out  his  part. 

A  few  days  after  this  there  were  strange  whisperings  about 
the  mills  in  regard  to  Eustis  Ferris  and  his  reasons  for  leav- 
ing Mr.  Merton's  employ.  No  one  could  trace  the  origin  of 
these  reports,  but  in  a  short  time  every  one  heard  the  rumor 
that  Eusti*  had  been  guilty  of  forging  Mr.  Merton's  name, 
and  that  the  latter,  not  wishing  to  distress  his  friends,  had 
not  only  allowed  him  to  escape,  but  had  aided  him  with 
money  to  do  so. 

It  does  not  take  a  little  snow-bail  long  to  roll  up  into  an 
immense  pile  if  worked  by  vigorous  hands.  So  it  is  with 
foul  reports — detraction  is  like  the  earthworms  which,  cut 
into  many  parts,  grow  and  spread  till  the  soil  is  full  of  them. 
The  report  soon  spread  to  Lyneham,  and  some  kind  friend 
went  to  Mr.  Lester  to  ascertain  if  it  had  any  foundation. 

Mr.  Lester  was  so  shocked  at  the  story  that  one  could 
have  knocked  him  down  with  a  feather.  ''No!  "  he  shouted 
indignantly,  "  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it.  It  is  a  lie 
made  out  of  whole  cloth,  and  if  I  find  the  perpetrator  of  such 
an  outrage,  I  will  wring  his  neck,  notwithstanding  my  Chris- 
tian office  !  "  And  he  started  off  at  once  to  demand  of  Mr. 
Merton  that  this  rumor  should  be  contradicted  at  once,  and 
to  ask  him  to  try  and  find  out  who  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

For  the  last  three  months  Mr.  Merton  and  Mr.  Lester 
had  been  on  intimate  terms.  The  former,  a  week  after  Eus- 
tis's departure,  had  called  at  the  parsonage  and,  finding  Mr. 
Lester  in,  sat  down  to  have  a  friendly  chat  in  his  sanctum. 
After  a  rambling  conversation,  Merton  remarked  :  ''  Mr. 
Lester,  you  may  consider  me  something  of  a  heathen,  but,  I 
assure  you,  I  am  not.  My  sins  are  those  of  omission,  but  I 
believe  in  the  Divine  Creator  and  all  his  works.     God  has 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  43 

been  so  kind  to  me  in  blessing  me  with  Vv-ealth  that  I  wish 
to  give  some  public  manifestation  of  what  I  feel.  I  wish  to 
hear  you  preach  those  beautiful  sermons,  which,  your  parish- 
ioners say,  fall  like  dew  upon  a  broken  spirit,  and  I  want  a 
pew  in  your  church." 

Mr.  Lester  was  amazed,  for,  though  he  did  not  look  upon 
the  speaker  as  an  outcast,  he  considered  him  as  one  on 
whom  time  would  be  wasted  in  trying  to  convert  him  to 
the  truths  of  religion.  "  I  am  truly  glad,"  he  said,"  to  welcome 
you  to  the  church.  The  example  of  so  prominent  and 
wealthy  a  man  will  have  a  good  effect  on  the  community." 
And  the  reverend  gentleman  pressed  the  manufacturer's 
hand. 

"  With  all  my  wealth  I  have  done  little  for  the  church," 
said  Merton,  "and,  no  doubt,  you  will  blame  me  for  it,  but 
I  am  going  to  make  amends.  Here  are  two  thousand  pounds, 
one  thousand  to  repair  the  church,  the  other  thousand  for 
yourself,  to  fit  up  the  rectory  and  make- those  charming 
daughters  of  yours  more  comfortable.  They  are  too  young 
to  be  compelled  to  feel  any  of  the  discomforts  of  life.  Re- 
member that  you  are  my  rector  and  I  have  a  right  to  pay 
my  tithes  in  the  manner  that  suits  me  best.  After  this,  I 
intend  to  give  three  hundred  a  year  to  the  church  for  char- 
ity, to  be  expended  under  your  direction,  and  to  increase 
your  salary  two  hundred  pounds.  Nay,  no  thanks  ;  I  will  not 
hear  them,  for  it  is  all  for  my  own  gratification.  My  in- 
come is  over  a  hundred  thousand  a  year,  and  I  have  no 
one  to  give  it  to,  therefore  make  no  objection  to  anything  I 
propose,  for  this  is  but  a  small  part  of  what  I  intend  to 
do  for  the  parish." 

Mr.  Lester  was  quite  overwhelmed  with  the  prospect  be- 
fore him.  "God  bless  you,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said;  "you  are 
a  good  man,  indeed,  and  I  will  not  throw  any  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  your  charities.  '  He  that  giveth  to  the  poor 
lendeth  to  the  Lord,'  and  you  will  be  blessed,"  forgetting 
that  Mr.  Merton  had  never  given  anything  to  him  or  to  the 


44  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

church  before,  and  attributing  his  present  liberality  to  the 
purest  motives. 

Of  course  they  became  greater  friends  than  ever,  and 
Mr.  Merton  stopped  in  at  the  parsonage  almost  every  day 
to  confer  with  the  clergyman  about  the  church,  or  to  inquire 
if  there  were  any  worthy  objects  of  charity  for  his  atten- 
tion. On  many  of  these  occasions  he  saw  JuUa  who, 
though  she  thought  him  a  very  ugly  man,  was  persuaded 
by  her  father  to  look  upon  him  as  a  very  benevolent  one. 
Thus  on  hearing  of  the  reports  against  the  character  of 
Eustis  Ferris,  Mr.  Lester  hastened  to  the  mills,  and  found 
Mr.  Merton,  as  usual,  looking  over  his  accounts. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  a  very  close  man,  Mr. 
Lester,"  he  said,  after  greeting  the  pastor,  **  but  I  must 
be  careful  if  I  do  not  wish  my  money  to  fly  away.  *  Take 
care  of  the  pennies  and  the  pounds  will  take  care  of  them- 
selves.' " 

"I  should  think,"  said  Mr.  Lester,  ''that  you  would 
take  a  rest,  and  have  some  confidential  person  to  do  the 
drudgery." 

'' Oh,  "  replied  Mr.  Merton,  "' there's  the  rub.'  I  have 
had  my  fingers  burned  too  often  to  again  put  them  in  the 
fire.  The  difficulty  is,  sir,  to  find  the  honest,  responsible 
man," 

"Mr.  Merton,"  said  Mr.  Lester,  "I  came  to  see  you  in 
regard  to  a  very  painful  matter." 

The  gentleman  addressed  put  himself  in  a  listening  atti- 
tude. "  What  can  you  have  to  pain  you,  Mr.  Lester  ?  If  it 
is  anything  about  money  matters,  do  not  hesitate  to  com- 
mand my  services." 

"Thank  you  kindly,"  was  the  reply,  "I  am  already  in- 
debted to  you  more  than  I  can  repay,  but  this  is  another 
subject."  He  then  told  of  the  rumor  concerning  Eustis 
Ferris. 

Merton  knew  about  it  already.  He  and  his  accountant, 
Brush,  had  managed  matters  so  that  no  one  could  tell  where 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  ^t^ 

the  report  originated,  but  he  started  in  feigned  surprise  as 
Lester  told  the  story.  "  Great  heavens  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
*'  how  did  that  get  out  ?  Can  not  a  man  keep  his  most  sacred 
affairs  from  scrutiny  ?  I  thought  that  secret  was  buried  for- 
ever." 

"  Then  there  is  some  foundation  for  the  rumor  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Lester,  turning  pale.  "What  will  become  of  Julia 
should  she  hear  it?  Who  originated  such  an  outrageous 
story.?     Can  not  we  find  and  punish  the  villain  ? " 

*' Unfortunately,  no,"  said  Merton,  sadly,  "and  the  less 
said  about  it  the  better.  In  fact,  Mr.  Lester,  there  is  foun- 
dation for  the  charge,  and  I  have  done  all  I  could  to  keep  the 
matter  secret." 

"  I  will  never  believe  it,"  said  Mr.  Lester,  hotly.  "  It  is 
the  invention  of  some  scoundrel  whom  I  will  leave  no  stone 
unturned  to  discover,  so  that  I  can  bring  him  to  punish- 
ment. I  have  known  Eustis  Ferris  from  childhood.  He  is 
the  soul  of  honor.  How  can  you,  Mr.  Merton,  for  a  moment 
entertain  such  thoughts  ?  A  man  who  can  judge  Eustis  so 
harshly  can  not  be  a  friend  of  mine."  He  rose  to  go,  his 
face  flushed  with  anger. 

The  manufacturer  turned  pale  and  his  jaws  snapped  to- 
gether with  a  crack  that  startled  the  rector,  who  had  never 
before  seen  Mr.  Merton  angry.  Mr.  Lester  had  to  confess 
that  the  man  had  a  most  unpleasant  countenance,  to  say  the 
least  of  it.  He  might,  indeed,  have  likened  it  to  the  face  of 
a  Mephistopheles,  or  something  worse.  The  rector  took  his 
hat  and  walked  toward  the  door. 

"  Not  so  fast,  sir,"  said  Merton,  regaining  his  placidity. 
"You  must  handle  a  nettle  carefully,  or  it  will  sting  your 
fingers.  There  is  no  man  who  has  not,  at  some  time  of  his 
life,  committed  faults.  He  may  have  been  tempted  beyond 
his  strength  and  fallen  ;  he  may  have  regretted  it  after- 
ward, made  amends,  and  become  a  good  member  of  society. 
I  have  known  of  cases  where  young  men  have  forged  the 
names  of  their  employers  to  obtain  the  means  of  paying  gam- 


46  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

bling  debts — debts  of  honor,  as  men  call  them — Intending 
to  return  the  money  at  once,  but  were  unfortunately  dis- 
covered before  they  had  the  opportunity.  A  rogue  may 
run  for  years,  plundering  those  about  him,  while  the  mere 
tyro  will  be  snapped  up  at  the  first  attempt.  Don't  judge 
too  harshly,  sir." 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Lester,  *'  do  you  mean  to  insinuate  in 
this  unfriendly  manner  that  the  man  who  is  engaged  to  my 
daughter  is  a  forger .''  " 

"  No,  sir,"  repUed  Merton  ;  '*  I  insinuate  nothing,  and 
you  will  see  before  this  conversation  ends  that  I  have  been 
the  best  friend  that  Eustis  ever  had  in  his  life.  I  took 
every  precaution  to  conceal  the  fact  of  the  forgery,  and  up 
to  ten  days  ago  no  one  else  in  the  parish  ever  dreamed  of  it ; 
but  then  came  a  letter  from  Australia,  which  was  opened 
ere  it  reached  me,  and  in  that  way  the  story  probably  leaked 
out." 

"  Australia,  did  you  say,  Mr.  Merton  ?  Why  Eustis  led 
us  to  believe  he  was  going  to  America,"  and  there  was  a 
trace  of  anger  in  the  rector's  face. 

*'  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Merton.  *'  He  left  me  under  the  same 
impression  ;  nevertheless,  he  went  to  Melbourne.  But,  Mr. 
Lester,  matters  have  taken  such  a  turn  that  it  Is  quite  as 
well  for  all  parties  concerned  that  you  should  know  the  whole 
story."  He  took  from  his  desk  a  letter.  *'  Read  that,  sir, 
and  judge  for  yourself." 

Mr.  Lester,  with  trembling  hands,  after  wiping  his  specta- 
cles and  recognizing  the  writing  as  that  of  Eustis  Ferris, 

read  as  follows : 

"  ISIelbourne,  February  3^,  i8 — . 

"  My  dear  benefactor  :  I  arrived  here  safely,  and  with 
the  aid  of  your  kind  letters  of  recommendation,  have  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  a  position  In  the  banking-house  of  Lem- 
uel and  Company,  and  you  will,  if  I  live,  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  that  I  have  acquitted  myself  honorably  In 
my  new  career?     My  face  burns  with  shame  when  I  think 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


47 


of  my  base  conduct  after  all  your  kindness  and  the  trust  you 
reposed  in  me.  But  for  you  I  should  to-day  be  branded 
with  the  name  of  '  forger  '  and  lodged  in  a  felon's  cell.  On 
my  knees  at  night  I  thank  God,  not  only  for  the  forbearance 
you  showed  toward  me,  but  the  unheard  of  kindness  you  ex- 
hibited in  order  to  forward  my  fortunes  after  I  had  commit- 
ted so  heinous  a  crime.  But  vou  will  find,  sir,  that  the 
seed  you  have  sown  has  not  fallen  on  barren  soil,  and  if  I 
live  to  see  you  again  you  can,  without  dishonoring  yourself, 
take  me  by  the  hand. 

"  It  is  not  likely,  however,  that  I  shall  return  to  England. 
I  shall  identify  myself  with  this  country,  and  try  and  become 
one  of  its  honored  citizens.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  that 
I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to  Miss  Lester,  the  daughter  of 
our  esteemed  rector,  but  that  dream  is  over.  I  could  not 
let  her  pure  nature  be  soiled  by  a  union  with  me.  She  is 
as  far  above  me  as  an  angel  of  light  is  above  one  of  the  imps 
of  the  infernal  regions,  and  she  would  be  horror-stricken  and 
throw  me  off  with  scorn  if  she  heard  that  1  had  committed 
forgery.  Let  me  be  dead  to  her.  I  shall  never  let  her  know 
my  whereabouts,  and  God  grant  she  may  forget  that  such  a 
person  as  myself  ever  existed.  My  life  will  be  one  of  sad- 
ness and  repentance.  I  am  like  the  blighted  oak  which  has 
been  seared  and  scorched  by  a  raging  fire.  I  shall  never 
know  happiness  again. 

"  I  trust,  kind  sir,  that  you  will  believe  me  grateful  for 
all  your  past  kindnesses,  and  for  sheltering  my  name  from 
the  dishonor  that  would  have  otherwise  fallen  upon  it. 
"I  remain,  humbly  and  respectfully, 

"  EusTis  Ferris. 

"  To  John  Merton,  Esq., 

^''Lyfieham^   Wiltshire'' 

When  Mr.  Lester  had  finished  reading  the  letter,  he 
handed  it  back  to  Mr.  Merton,  and  said:  ''And  that  villain 
expected  to  marry  my  innocent  Julia,  and  left  us  under  the 


48 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


impression  that  he  would  return  in  a  year  to  claim  her  as 
his  wife.  I  would  like  to  see  him  come  near  me  !  I  should 
forget  the  sanctity  of  my  cloth  and  give  him  a  drubbing  he 
would  remember  the  rest  of  his  life.  But,  Mr.  Merton,"  he 
continued,  almost  beside  himself  with  anger,  "you  have 
shown  me  his  letter;  now  tell  me  the  whole  story.  My 
daughter  must  not  remain  in  ignorance  of  this.  She  will  be 
horrified  at  the  idea  of  having  been  engaged  to  a  man  who 
has  committed  a  crime,  and  will  tear  his  image  from  her 
heart  at  once.  She  will  be  too  proud  to  grieve  about  him. 
Now  for  the  proofs,  sir ;  let  me  speak  to  her  fully  informed. 
I  pity  the  poor  child,  but  she  has  her  mother's  spirit,  and 
never  will  waste  regrets  on  a  felon." 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Mr.  Merton.  ''  Be  charitable, 
and  say  'one  carried  away  by  temptation.'  "  He  laid  down 
at  the  same  time  the  forged  check,  the  fac- similes  of  his 
name,  and  the  piece  of  box-wood,  and  left  him  to  ponder 
over  them. 

After  attentively  examining  them,  Mr.  Lester  rose  from 
his  chair,  and  said,  emphatically  :  "  A  man  who  could  do  that, 
and  obtain  the  money,  Mr.  Merton,  is  no  tyro,  but  an  ex- 
pert, and  if  he  were  in  France  would  be  branded  ^Forcat* 
You  were  too  easy  with  him,  and  he  v/ill  repay  your  kind- 
ness with  the  basest  ingratitude." 

*'  Not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Mr.  Merton.  "  I  am  too  good 
a  judge  of  human  nature  to  be  deceived — yet,  who  can  tell  ? 
The  fairest  looking  fruit  is  sometimes  rotten  at  the  core." 

"  You  are  a  good  man,  Mr.  Merton,"  said  the  pastor, 
"  and  a  better  Christian  than  I  am.  I  can  feel  no  mercy 
in  my  heart  for  this  forger,  and  shall  hate  him  if  my 
daughter  gives  way  under  the  news.  I  will  tell  her  as  gently 
as  possible,  but  truth  is  truth,  and  you  can  not  paint  vice 
white  when  it  is  so  black  in  its  nature.  What  a  villain  ! 
What  a  villain  !  To  bring  misery  upon  a  family  that  cher- 
ished and  loved  him  as  we  did  !  The  snake  in  the  grass  !  " 
And   the   rector  who  had  been   too   indignant  up  to  this 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


49 


point  to  show  any  other  emotion,  burst  into  tears,  and,  lay- 
ing his  head  on  the  table,  sobbed  like  a  child.  Suddenly 
he  arose,  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  rushed  from 
the  room. 

Mr.  Merton  looked  after  him,  locked  the  door,  and  burst 
into  a  laugh,  bringing  his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  so 
much  force  that  the  top  was  split.  "  There  goes  an  egre- 
gious old  ass.  He  will  be  glad  now  to  marry  his  daughter 
to  the  first  man  that  asks  her  hand,  and  will  be  delighted  to 
give  her  to  the  great  manufacturer  whose  income  '  is  over 
one  hundred  thousand  pounds  a  year.'  "  He  rang  his  bell, 
and  the  low-browed  accountant  Brush  looked  carefully  into 
the  room,  as  if  to  see  whether  there  was  a  policeman  waiting 
for  him.     When  he  saw  the  coast  vras  clear,  in  he  walked. 

"  Well,  Brush,"  said  the  manufacturer,  "  you  did  up  that 
letter  well.  It  acted  like  a  charm.  The  best  friend  Eustis 
Ferris  had  could  not  have  detected  the  forgery''  The  em- 
phasis on  the  last  word  caused  Brush  to  wince.  "  Here  is  a 
hundred-pound  note.  You  will,  perhaps,  soon  have  an  op- 
portunity of  doubling  the  money,  but  don't  fail  to  keep  the 
report  going,  and  if  you  could  manage  to  get  a  paragraph 
into  the  ''  London  Times,"  giving  an  account  of  the  manner 
in  which  Ferris  is  vround  up  in  this  business,  it  will  put  the 
cap-stone  to  the  matter.  Now  go,  and  don't  let  your  right 
hand  know  what  your  left  is  doing."  With  that  Brush 
sneaked  out  of  the  room,  while  Merton  put  the  proofs  of 
Eustis  Ferris's  guilt  away,  locked  them  up,  and  sat  down  to 
pore  over  his  ledger  again. 


CHAPTER    IV 


When  Mr.  Lester  left   Mr.   Merton's  office  his  first  im- 
pulse was  to  go  home,  shut  himself  up,  and  see  no  one  for  a 
week,  but  he  wanted  action  to  keep  his  head  from  bursting. 
He  felt  that  if  he  did  not  obtain  some  relief  for  his  mind 
4 


5b  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

he  would  go  crazy.  He  had  been  invited  to  take  part 
in  a  fox  hunt  that  day;  it  was  now  too  late  to  join  the  start, 
but  he  thought  that  by  hard  riding  across  the  country  he 
could  probably  be  in  at  the  death ;  so  he  quickly  changed 
his  clothes,  went  to  the  stable,  had  his  hunter  saddled,  and 
rode  away  at  a  gallop  without  any  one  of  the  family  haviag 
been  aware  of  his  presence.  He  rode  at  a  furious  pace— fast 
enough  to  use  up  an  ordinary  horse — and  after  about  an 
hour,  the  baying  of  the  hounds  fell  upon  his  ear.  His  noble 
roan  pricked  up  his  ears  and  began  to  pull  upon  the  bit. 
The  parson  was  a  true  sportsman  and,  excited  by  the  familiar 
sound,  he  gave  his  horse  the  rein.  The  hounds  were  coming 
towards  him,  and  presently  he  saw  the  fox  scudding  across 
the  field,  his  tail  near  the  ground,  and  the  whole  pack  in 
pursuit  not  a  hundred  yards  away.  There  were  but  two 
riders  up  with  the  hounds,  and  they  were  urging  their  horses 
to  their  utmost  speed. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Lester  saw  the  fox,  he  pointed  his  horse 
in  that  direction.  Rock,  giving  a  snort,  started  at  full 
speed  after  the  object  of  the  chase.  The  rector  was  between 
the  hounds  and  the  fox.  He  generally  kept  in  the  rear, 
being  heavy  and  not  as  good  a  rider  as  many  of  the 
younger  men,  and,  therefore,  had  never  had  the  slightest 
chance  of  taking  the  brush ;  indeed  he  had  no  thought  of 
it,  but  now  his  opportunity  was  at  hand.  His  horse  was 
fresh  compared  with  that  of  the  two  riders  following  the 
hounds,  and  he  gained  at  every  jump  on  poor  Reynard, 
whose  tail  was  dragging  on  the  ground  and  who  was  evident- 
ly losing  his  strength.  The  parson  forgot  his  troubles — 
Eustis  Ferris,  the  forgery,  Mr.  Merton,  and  his  daughter 
Julia,  all  vanished  from  his  mind  as  the  prospect  of  snatch- 
ing the  brush  increased,  and  he  shouted  in  ecstacy  as  his 
horse  sped  over  the  turf,  leaving  hounds  and  huntsmen  in 
the  rear. 

Mr.  Lester  had  never  ridden  over  this  ground  before, 
and  was  not  familiar   with  the  locality.     He  generally  fol- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  5 1 

lowed  "  the  jumpers,"  and  knew  by  them  what  kind  of  a  leap 
to  expect.  Now  he  was  leading,  and  had  to  take  the  chances. 
Before  him  was  a  stone  wall  four  feet  high,  with  a  gate  which 
led  to  a  road  in  the  next  field.  The  fox  made  for  the  wall, 
Mr.  Lester's  hunter  following  him,  animated  with  a  spirit 
like  that  of  his  master.  The  horse  was  hardly  three  feet  from 
the  wall  when  the  fox  crawled  up  its  side.  The  horse  rose 
in  the  air  and  over  he  v/ent,  but  neither  horse  nor  rider  an- 
ticipated the  danger  beyond  the  wall,  where  there  was  an 
unseen  ditch.  This  had  lately  been  dug  to  make  a  cause- 
way, leaving  on  each  side  of  the  gate  deep  and  dangerous 
holes. 

Only  the  hand  of  Providence  could  stay  the  fate  which 
awaited  horse  and  rider.  They  fell  with  a  crash  into  the 
excavation  amid  sharp  bowlders.  The  horse's  neck  was 
broken,  and  the  rector  crushed  beneath  him.  In  a  moment 
the  baying  hounds  came  tumbling  across  the  wall,  the  whole 
pack  passing  over  the  prostrate  horse  and  rider,  and  con- 
tinuing their  course  for  fifty  yards  ;  they  then  scattered  over 
the  field,  trying  to  regain  the  scent  of  the  fox.  Reynard  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen  ;  he  had  disappeared  as  completely  as  if 
he  had  vanished  into  air. 

The  two  foremost  riders  came  up  a  minute  later  on  their 
tired  horses  and,  stopping,  opened  the  gate.  As  they  passed 
through  a  dreadful  sight  met  their  eyes.  The  horse  lay 
dead,  and  the  rector  under  him  seemed  dead  also.  The 
hounds,  who  had  ceased  to  follow  the  trail  of  the  fox,  had 
come  back  on  their  tracks,  and,  surrounding  the  hole,  were 
howling  like  wolves  deprived  of  their  prey.  Some  laborers 
were  at  work  not  far  off,  and  these  the  fox-hunters  called 
to  their  assistance.  The  dead  horse  was  removed  from  Mr. 
Lester's  body,  he  was  taken  out,  and  there  alongside  him  lay 
the  fox,  which  had  been  killed  by  the  fall  of  the  hunter. 

Accustomed  as  the  sportsmen  were  to  accidents,  this  was 
the  saddest  they  had  ever  witnessed.  As  the  rest  of  the 
huntsmen  came    up,   they  alighted    and    stood  awe-struck 


52 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


around  the  body  of  the  genial  rector  who  had  so  often 
joined  in  their  sports.  One,  more  thoughtful  than  the  rest, 
put  his  hand  on  Mr.  Lester's  heart,  and  found  it  beat- 
ing. Further  examination  showed  that  the  pastor's  left 
thigh  was  broken,  his  shoulder  dislocated,  and  his  head 
and  face  badly  cut.  One  of  the  gentlemen  rode  off  to  pro- 
cure medical  aid,  while  the  laborers  were  sent  to  bring  the 
easiest  vehicle  they  could  find  on  the  farm.  In  half  an  hour 
they  returned  with  an  open  wagon,  and  the  wounded  man 
was  lifted  into  it  and  placed  upon  a  mattrass.  He  groaned, 
and  muttered  some  incoherent  words  which  no  one  could 
understand.  One  of  the  party  placed  his  flask  to  the  suffer- 
er's lips,  and  the  draught  seemed  to  partially  revive  him. 

The  procession  moved  slowly  towards  Lyneham,  which 
was  about  five  miles  away,  one  of  the  gentlemen  riding  ahead 
to  apprise  the  family  at  the  rectory  of  what  had  occurred. 
It  was  a  melancholy  cavalcade,  more  like  a  funeral  than 
anything  else,  for  there  was  not  a  man  in  the  company 
who  did  not  feel  deeply  the  dismal  calamity  that  had  fallen 
upon  the  children  of  their  rector,  who,  in  case  of  his  death, 
would  be  left  penniless  and  without  any  relations  in  the 
world. 

A  surgeon  met  the  procession  on  the  way,  and,  jumping 
into  the  wagon,  examined  the  patient.  "  Ah,"  he  said, 
*' grieviously  hurt,  but  there  is  life  in  him  yet." 

When  Mr.  Lester  arrived  home,  he  was  quickly  removed 
to  his  room  in  charge  of  the  surgeon,  who  proceeded  to 
dress  his  wounds  and  bandage  them.  Fortunately,  his 
daughters  were  not  at  home  to  witness  his  sufferings.  After 
the  surgeon  had  set  his  thigh,  pulled  his  shoulder  in  place, 
and  bound  up  his  face,  he  began  to  regain  his  consciousness, 
but  a  sedative  was  given  him,  and  he  fell  into  an  unquiet 
slumber,  while  the  surgeon  sat  holding  his  wrist  to  keep  the 
run  of  his  pulse. 

When  his  daughters  arrived  and  heard  that  their  father 
was  in  bed  severely  injured,  there  were  no  bounds  to  their 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  53 

grief.  Julia,  pale  as  marble,  and  the  tears  streaming  down 
her  face,  was  met  at  the  door  of  his  room  by  the  surgeon, 
who  put  his  fingers  to  his  lips,  and  whispered  to  her  :  "  Be 
brave,  young  lady.  On  your  nursing  your  father's  chances 
will  greatly  depend.  He  is  sleeping  quietly,  and  if  he  has 
no  internal  injuries  will  recover." 

''  May  I  come  now  and  watch  over  him  ?  "  she  sobbed. 

''  Yes,"  said  the  surgeon,  "  but  you  must  get  rid  of  these 
exhibitions  of  grief,  which  do  not  help  a  sick  man.  Make 
his  room  as  cheerful  as  possible,  and  meet  him  with  a  smile 
when  he  wakes,  which  will  be  in  two  or  three  hours." 

Julia  Lester  was  appalled  when  she  saw  her  father  in 
his  helpless  condition,  but  she  was  a  brave  girl,  and  sav/  the 
necessity  for  coolness  and  watchfulness  over  one  she  loved 
better  than  life.  She  never  left  him,  night  or  day,  and  what 
sleep  she  obtained  was  in  an  easy-chair  by  his  bedside.  In 
three  days  Mr.  Lester  regained  consciousness,  but  was  very 
weak,  looking  little  like  the  stalwart  person  who  had  ridden 
forth  a  few  days  before  in  all  his  manly  vigor  and  intelli- 
gence. The  surgeon  visited  him  frequently  during  the  day 
and  night,  and  continued  to  assure  Julia  that  if  there  was 
no  internal  disturbance  her  father  would  recover,  although 
he  might  suffer  some  months  from  his  injuries. 

On  the  fourth  day  the  patient  could  express  himself 
plainly  and  tell  his  wants,  and  Julia  and  her  sisters  were 
buoyed  up  by  hope  that  they  would  keep  him  with  them 
many  years,  but  it  was  not  so  to  be,  for  the  next  day  inflam- 
mation set  in,  and  his  sufferings  were  intense.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  his  eldest  daughter  all  the  time  when  he  was  not 
under  the  influence  of  opium,  and  he  seemed  anxious  to  say 
something  to  her,  but  could  not  express  himself  plainly, 
while  the  heart  of  his  affectionate  child  almost  broke  under 
the  strain  put  upon  it.  On  the  sixth  day  his  case  reached 
its  climax,  and  the  surgeon  stated  that  there  was  no  hope 
for  Mr.  Lester,  internal  mortification  having  commenced. 
As  he  was  free  from  pain  the  surgeon  suggested  it  would  be 


54  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

well  for  him  to  express  his  wishes,  for  in  a  day  or  two  he 
would  be  no  more. 

We  pass  over  the  anguish  that  crushed  the  children  of 
the  dying  man.  All  of  us  some  time  or  other  have  lost 
a  being  whom  we  loved,  and  we  know  the  agony  that  is 
brouf^ht  to  our  homes  by  the  hand  of  death,  when  the  fiat 
has  gone  forth,  but  we  have  to  submit,  though  we  may  labor 
to  save  the  life  of  the  loved  one  and  pray  to  God  to  con- 
tinue him  or  her  with  us.  But  when  the  soul  has  departed  to 
its  Maker,  we  should  follow  the  example  of  David  when  his 
child  died.  He  arose  from  the  earth  and  glorified  God. 
So  it  was  with  Julia  when  she  saw  that  there  was  no  possi- 
ble hope  for  her  father.  "  She  put  off  grieving,"  and  sat 
with  his  hand  in  hers.  Suddenly  he  awoke  in  possession  of 
all  his  mental  faculties  and  motioned  her  closer  to  him. 

*'  I  have  a  sad  story  to  tell  you,  my  darling,"  he  said,  in 
a  faint  voice.  "  I  have  never  before  said  a  disagreeable 
word  to  you  in  my  life,  but  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  speak  of 
this  " — he  rested  a  moment  to  recover  his  breath. 

''What  is  it,  dear  papa.^"  she  murmured.  "Whatever 
you  wish  shall  be  attended  to." 

Mr.  Lester's  chest  heaved  in  the  effort  to  express  his 
wishes,  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  and  his  face  was  flushed.  At 
last  he  was  able  to  continue :  ''  Julia,  my  own  darling,  in  a 
few  hours  I  shall  be  gathered  to  my  fathers  and  appear 
before  the  throne  of  grace  to  answer  for  my  sins.  My  last 
words  to  you  are,  do  not  marry  Eustis  Ferris.  He  is  un- 
worthy of  you  ;  he  is  a  forger  and  a  fugitive  from  justice.  I 
have  seen  all  the  evidence  against  him.  He  is  now  in  Aus- 
tralia, instead  of  New  York,  as  he  told  you  he  would  be,  en- 
gaged, perhaps,  in  further  crimes.  Give  him  up — he  will 
end  his  life  in  penal  servitude." 

Julia  gasped  for  breath  in  her  endeavors  to  answer  her 
father.  Her  head  reeled,  while  her  father,  not  noticing  her 
emotion,  said  :  "  Julia,  my  pet,  my  darling,  promise  that  you 
will  obey  me." 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  55 

She  heard  no  more.  With  a  wild  shriek  she  fell  upon 
the  floor,  the  blood  gushing  from  her  mouth.  She  was  to 
appearance  lifeless,  and  the  dying  father  had  not  strength 
enough  left  to  call  for  help.  He  could  dimly  see  her  lying 
upon  the  floor  and  apparently  bleeding  to  death.  He  threw 
the  covers  off  and  tried  to  reach  her  with  his  unhurt  hand, 
but  without  avail.  His  head  and  shoulders  almost  reached 
the  floor,  but  he  could  not  assist  her ;  his  strength  had  de- 
serted him,  and  he  hung  gasping  for  breath,  his  soul  torn 
with  conflicting  emotions  at  the  dreadful  scene  before  him. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  gave  up  the  struggle — he  was  dead. 

The  shades  of  evening  w^ere  closing  around  the  house 
when  the  surgeon  came  to  pay  his  accustomed  visit  to  en- 
deavor to  relieve  the  sufferer  of  pain  and  give  him  a  quiet 
night.  The  two  younger  sisters  awaited  him  in  the  library, 
bathed  in  tears  and  anxious  to  learn  whether  there  was  any 
shadow  of  hope  for  their  loved  father.  The  surgeon  tried 
to  assume  a  cheerful  look,  and  shook  them  cordially  by  the 
hand. 

''  Well,  my  dear  children,"  said  the  good  doctor,  "  how 
is  the  patient  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  the  elder  sister,  "  that  he  must  be  sleep- 
ing. Julia  has  not  come  out  of  the  room,  and  it  has  been 
very  quiet  up  there  for  nearly  two  hours." 

**Then,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  VN'ill  go  up  and  take  a  look." 
He  ascended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  sick-room.  The 
light  was  dim,  and  he  could  see  nothing  plainly.  Advancing 
toward  the  bed  he  stumbled  over  a  body.  He  rang  for  a 
light,  which  the  maid  brought  and  handed  to  him  through 
the  half-closed  door,  which  he  quickly  shut  in  her  face.  The 
surgeon's  horror  can  be  imagined  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  Julia 
lying  on  the  floor,  covered  with  blood,  and  the  dead  body 
of  the  rector  hanging  out  of  bed,  his  wide-open,  glazed  eyes 
betraying  the  anguish  in  which  he  had  expired.  The  docs 
tor  placed  his  hand  on  the  rector's  heart — it  had  ceased  to 
beat.     No  pulse  was  to  be  found  at  the  wrist,  and,  on  subse- 


56  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

quent  examination,  it  was  found  that  he  must  have  been 
dead  more  than  an  hour. 

The  surgeon  next  turned  his  attention  to  Julia,  who  was 
moaning  as  if  in  pain.  It  was  all  a  mystery  to  the  doctor. 
Placing  the  body  of  the  dead  man  on  the  bed  again  and 
arranging  it  so  that  it  would  appear  as  if  he  had  died  peace- 
fully, he  rang  the  bell  for  the  housekeeper  and  maid,  and 
when  they  came,  said  :  "  Be  cool  and  quiet,  make  no  noise, 
but  help  me  get  your  young  lady  to  bed ;  her  nose  has  been 
bleeding."  Rolling  a  blanket  around  Julia,  they  carried  her 
to  her  chamber. 

*'Now,"  said  the  doctor,  "undress  her,  cleanse  the  blood 
away,  and  put  her  in  bed  as  soon  as  possible."  All  of  which 
the  practical  housekeeper  proceeded  to  do.  Then  the  sur- 
geon went  into  the  pastor's  room  to  see  if  anything  could  be 
done,  but  he  was  stone  dead.  This  was  a  sad  state  of  af- 
fairs, but  medical  men  are  accustomed  to  scenes  of  death, 
and  heaving  a  sigh  over  his  old  friend,  he  went  back  to  look 
after  Julia. 

He  found  her  in  bed  with  eyes  wide  open  and  staring 
straight  before  her,  with  an  expression  in  her  face  pitiful  to 
see,  for  she  was  evidently  suffering  great  mental  anguish. 
He  took  her  hand,  which  was  cold  and  clammy,  and  found 
her  pulse  beating  irregularly.  "  Miss  Julia,"  he  said,  "  where 
do  you  feel  pain.^" 

She  turned  her  great  eyes  upon  him,  and  laying  her  hand 
on  her  heart,  said,  in  plaintive  tones,  "  Here,  doctor,  here. 
Papa  said  Eustis  committed  forgery  and  was  a  fugitive  from 
'  justice.  Oh  !  I  want  to  die !  I  can't  live  with  such  disgrace 
hanging  over  me,"  and  great  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks 
like  dew-drops  from  the  leaves  of  a  beauteous  rose. 

"Be  quiet,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "No  one  has  committed 
forgery.  You  are  only  dreaming  and  are  feverish.  Take 
this  anodyne  and  try  to  sleep.  I  will  stay  and  watch  over 
you." 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  she  murmured.     "  It  was  only  a 


ARTHUR  MERTOX. 


57 


dream,  while  I  thought  it  all  a  reality."  In  a  few  minutes 
she  slept,  and  the  doctor  sent  a  messenger  to  Mr.  Merton, 
whom  he  knew  was  intimate  with  the  pastor,  to  notify  him 
of  his  death  and  requesting  him  to  come  to  the  rectory  at 
once. 

Mr.  Merton  had  been  very  attentive  since  he  heard  of 
the  accident,  sending  such  delicacies  as  are  usually  given  to 
sick  persons,  but  though  he  knew  that  Mr.  Lester  was  se- 
verely hurt,  he  had  no  idea  that  his  life  would  terminate  so 
quickly.  He  had  inquired  many  times  after  his  friend, 
always  sending  up  his  card  to  Julia,  to  impress  her  with  his 
kindness,  but  could  never  see  her.  When  the  news  of  Mr. 
Lester's  death  reached  him  through  the  surgeon's  messen- 
ger, his  heart  leaped  with  exultation,  and  though  his  jaws 
snapped  together  nervously,  yet  it  really  was  with  joy. 
''  Now,  thank  fortune,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  have  the  whole 
matter  in  my  own  hands.  I  must  be  a  fool  if  1  can  not  have 
things  terminate  as  I  wish.     Fortune  has  smiled  upon  me." 

He  grinned  as  a  hungry  wolf  might  do  over  a  poor  an- 
imal that  had  fallen  into  his  clutches.  On  ascertaining  from 
the  messenger  that  Miss  Julia  was  very  ill,  he  at  once 
rang  his  bell.  ''  Send  the  housekeeper  to  me,  and  hurry 
about  it,"  he  said,  in  the  tones  which  made  every  one  in 
the  establishment  jump  when  they  heard  them. 

The  housekeeper  came  quickly.  She  was  a  tidy  little 
body  of  fifty,  with  good-nature  beaming  from  her  face. 
"  Here,  Mrs.  Kearney,"  said  Merton,  "  Miss  Lester  is  very 
ill.  Her  father  is  dead.  Get  your  traps  together,  go  down 
to  the  rectory  and  take  charge  of  her.  I  will  be  down  soon 
after  you.  Pull  her  through  this  sickness  and  your  reward 
shall  be  a  hundred  pounds." 

"Yes,  your  honor,"  answered  the  little  woman,  "all  that 
can  be  done  shall  be  done."  And  she  hurried  away  to  exe- 
cute her  master's  commands. 

Mr.  Merton  followed  soon  after,  and  sending  for  the 
Lesters'  housekeeper  addressed  that   personage  as  follows: 


58  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

"  Mrs,  Foster,  I  am  next  friend  to  Mr.  Lester  and  his  daugh- 
ters, and  naturally  the  charge  of  this  unhappy  family  de~ 
volves  on  me.  Mr.  Lester  has  left  his  affairs  in  bad  condi- 
tion, and  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  money  in  the  house." 

*'  You  are  right,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Foster.  Leastwise,  I  haven't 
seen  any.  Mr.  Lester  hadn't  much  money,  yer  honor,  an' 
he  was  that  wedded  to  fox-huntin'  that  his  horse  had  hardly 
a  full  meal  a  day,  much  less  his  family." 

"  That  will  all  be  rectified,"  said  Merton.  "  I  will  take  care 
there  shall  be  plenty  of  everything  until  matters  are  straight- 
ened out,  but  do  not  breathe  to  a  soul  where  the  suppHes 
come  from  until  I  permit  you.  Here  is  a  hundred  pounds 
for  actual  necessities  ;  when  that  is  gone  let  me  know  and 
I  will  provide  more." 

"An'  sure,  you're  an  angel,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Foster.  '*  Who 
but  you  would  think  of  all  these  things.?  And  thank  you, 
sir,  for  sindin'  down  yer  tidy  housekeeper  to  nurse  the 
young  lady  through  her  sickness,  for  I'm  not  that  strong 
that  I  can  sit  up  of  nights,  bein'  as  I'm  troubled  with 
rheumatiz  the  last  ten  years." 

**  Never  mind  thanks,"  said  Merton  ;  "carry  out  my  or- 
ders. I  am  in  charge  now,  and  you  will  find  it  to  your 
interests  to  consult  me  about  everything." 

The  housekeeper  watched  him  as  he  walked  off.  "  God 
bless  him  I  "  she  exclaimed,  "  there  goes  a  good  man.  He's 
no  that  handsome  as  he  will  keep  any  young  lady  awake 
nights  a-thinkin'  on  him,  and  he's  shamblin'  in  his  walk, 
and  he  don't  look  one  straight  in  the  eye,  as  my  own  dear, 
dead  master  did,  but  he's  a  good  man,  for  all  that,  and  he 
won't  let  my  young  ladies  suffer  while  the  mills  stand.  An' 
ain't  he  a  Christian  indeed  ?  An'  has'nt  he  a  pew  in  the 
church,  an'  isn't  he  repairin*  the  chancel,  an'  what  more 
would  you  have  in  a  man  than  that  t  Fie  may  be  ugly  an' 
all  that,  but  he's  a  Christian,  nevertheless,"  and  she  closed 
the  door,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 

In  the  mean  time  Julia  was  attended  by  the  faithful  sur- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  59 

geon,  who  gave  all  his  time  to  her.  Three  days  had  passed 
since  her  father's  death,  but  she  was  wholly  unconscious  of 
it.  She  lay  in  a  dazed  condition  most  of  the  time,  her  eyes 
looking  on  vacancy.  She  uttered  no  complaint  and  took 
the  medicines  and  sustenance  that  were  offered  her.  Noth- 
ing seemed  to  do  her  any  good  and,  at  last,  the  doctor  began 
to  think  she  had  lost  her  reason. 

On  the  third  day  it  was  necessary  to  bury  Mr.  Lester, 
whose  body  was  followed  to  the  grave  by  his  two  younger 
daughters  and  many  of  his  parishioners,  and  interred  in  the 
shadow  of  the  church  where  he  had  often  delighted  his 
hearers.  There  we  will  leave  him  to  rest  in  peace.  He  was 
saved  by  death  from  much  unhappiness,  for,  had  he  lived, 
he  would  have  been  tortured  by  the  knowledge  of  Eustis 
Ferris's  crime,  and  would  have  witnessed  the  heart-rending 
sorrow  through  which  his  beloved  daughter  had  to  pass. 
He  had  been  a  gay  man,  and  might  have  deemed  it  a  pun- 
ishment for  engaging  in  pursuits  which  detracted  from  the 
sanctity  of  his  office. 

Julia  laid  in  her  dazed  state  for  many  days.  Her  friends 
were  very  attentive  and  kind,  the  foremost  of  whom  was 
Mr.  Merton,  who  called  frequently  at  the  house.  Every- 
thing was  supplied  by  him  for  the  patient's  comfort  that 
heart  could  desire.  He  cheered  up  the  younger  sisters  for 
the  first  two  weeks  of  their  bereavement,  and  after  that,  took 
them  or  sent  them  out  in  his  carriage.  He  left  nothing  un- 
done to  make  them  forget  their  loss,  and  they  soon  began 
to  regard  him  as  their  best  friend,  though  they  could  not 
but  think  him  uncouth  and  could  not  grow  fond  of  him,  yet 
they  had  confidence  in  him,  and  always  welcomed  his  coming. 

At  the  end  of  a  month,  when  the  doctor  was  one  day 
sitting  by  his  patient,  watching  for  any  change  in  her  condi- 
tion, one  of  the  younger  sisters  entered  the  room  to  call  the 
physician.  The  patient  was  lying  in  the  same  dazed  state, 
gazing  at  vacancy,  when  she  turned  her  head,  and  seeing  her 
sister  in  deep  mourning,  burst  into  tears.     It  was  an  unex- 


6o  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

pected  thing,  but  the  doctor  hailed  it  with  delight.  "  Now," 
he  said,  ^'  1  am  sure  of  restoring  your  sister  to  health.  What 
she  needs  are  tears  to  relieve  her  mind.  Pent  up  tears  are 
like  pent  up  fires  in  the  earth,  they  are  destructive.  Let  her 
cry  ;  it  will  do  her  good." 

At  length  Julia  said,  in  feeble  tones  :  "  I  know,  dear  Ada, 
by  your  mourning  weeds  that  our  loved  father  is  dead. 
What  will  become  of  us  all  ?  "  She  fell  back  on  her  pillow 
exhausted.  The  doctor  gave  her  a  soothing  draught,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  she  was  asleep  and  slept  for  many  hours. 

Let  us  pass  over  Julia's  distress  when  she  was  told  of  her 
father's  death  and  burial.  She  grieved  as  only  those  do 
whose  hearts  and  souls  are  devoted  to  their  parents  and 
whose  happiness  is  identified  with  them.  Life  seemed  no 
longer  to  have  any  charms  for  her,  but,  fortunately,  time 
assuages  the  strongest  grief  and  lifts  the  burden  of  sorrow 
from  the  heart.  The  traces  of  sorrow  may  be  left  for  many 
years,  or  until  effaced  by  stirring  scenes  and  incidents, 
though  some  griefs  will  remain  fixed  in  the  camera  of  the 
brain,  never  to  be  obliterated,  no  matter  what  efforts  we 
make  to  forget  them. 

Julia's  grief  weighed  her  down,  so  that  she  scarcely  felt 
as  if  she  could  live  from  day  to  day.  Indeed,  she  wondered 
how  she  lived  at  all  with  such  sorrow  tugging  at  her  heart- 
strings. If  she  slept  the  pain  visited  her  in  her  dreams  ;  when 
awake  she  only  wished  that  her  senses  might  be  steeped  in 
oblivion.  She  began  to  realize  what  great  responsibilities 
had  devolved  upon  her,  in  the  care  of  the  helpless  house- 
hold under  her  charge,  and  she  tried  her  best  to  arouse  her- 
self to  the  task  of  doing  her  duty  to  the  two  young  sisters 
who  were  now  entirely  dependent  on  her.  The  last  words 
of  her  father  had  burned  into  her  brain.  "  Do  not  marry 
Eustis  Ferris.  He  is  unworthy  of  you  ;  he  is  a  forger  and 
a  fugitive  from  justice.  I  have  seen  all  the  evidence  against 
him."  She  could  not  forget  those  words.  They  come  in 
the  shape  of  a  command  from  a  parent  she  had  never  diso- 


ARTHUR  MERTOX.  6 1 

beyed.     What  could  she  do  ?     How  could  she  act  In  defi- 
ance of  his  dying  admonition  ? 

Her  father  had  called  a  man  she  loved  better  than  all 
the  world  2,  forger— s\iQ  shuddered  when  she  thought  of  the 
dreadful  word — but  there  must  be  some  mistake  about  it. 
Some  one  had  misinformed  her  father,  or  he  had  spoken  in 
his  delirium,  and  she  had  no  means  of  finding  out  the  truth. 
Seven  months  had  elapsed  since  her  lover's  departure,  and 
she  had  not  received  a  line  from  him.  What  if  he  were 
dead,  and  it  had  been  kept  from  her?  Death  had  been 
reaping  such  a  harvest  of  late  that  Eustis  might  have  fallen 
a  victim  to  disease  in  a  foreign  land,  or  have  been  lost  at 
sea. 

She  had  heard  of  no  wrecks  and,  yet,  how  could  she, 
confined  to  her  room,  and  never  having  seen  a  newspaper  1 
Her  sisters  went  in  and  out  of  her  chamber  with  tearful  eyes, 
and  gave  her  no  news  of  any  kind.  They  were  thinking 
what  would  they  do  should  this  dear  sister  be  taken  from 
them,  and  they  be  left  alone  in  a  cold,  unsympathizing  world, 
for  in  the  pale  face  and  attenuated  form  they  saw  every 
indication  that  Julia  might  soon  be  laid  beside  her  father. 

Julia  knew  that  the  passage  between  New  York  and 
England  took  but  a  short  time  to  accomplish,  and  she  could 
not  understand  why  in  all  these  months  she  had  not  heard 
a  word  from  Eustis.  She  did  not  for  a  moment,  believe  the 
charge  against  him — her  heart  was  too  loyal  for  that.  She 
was  sure  her  father  had  been  imposed  upon  by  some  enemy 
of  her  lover,  and  had  he  lived  would  have  been  foremost, 
not  only  to  disprove  the  charge,  but  to  discover  who  had 
originated  it.  But  what  a  dreadful  accusation  it  was — quite 
enough  to  make  any  man  fly  his  country  until  he  could  fur- 
nish proof  of  his  innocence.  So  she  passed  the  time,  day 
after  day,  sitting  at  her  room  window,  and  looking  out  upon 
wood  and  dale. 


62  ARTHUR  MERTON. 


CHAPTER   V. 


It  was  now  the  latter  part  of  June,  and  summer  was  in 
all  its  glory.  The  rectory  stood  in  a  sequestered  spot  amid 
trees  that  claimed  an  age  of  several  centuries.  The  fragrant 
honeysuckle  wound  its  way  to  the  highest  branches,  while 
the  Virginia  creeper  and  other  wild  vines  covered  the  rocks 
which  had  been  left  to  beautify  the  scene.  The  leaves 
hardly  stirred,  and  the  silence  which  reigned  about  the 
pleasant  place  was  unbroken.  To  a  poetic  mind  it  seemed 
a  foretaste  of  that  blissful  rest  which  we  all  fondly  look  for, 
but  which  so  few  of  us  can  find.  The  birds  under  the 
shadow  of  the  leaves  hushed  their  songs,  waiting  until  the 
heat  of  noonday  had  passed  ere  carroling  their  joyous  lays 
to  reverberate  through  the  echoing  woods.  Some  hills  in 
the  soft  haze  of  distance  stretched  away  to  the  northward 
and  seemed  to  stand  as  a  barrier,  leaving  this  beautiful 
place  in  such  sweet  repose  that  it  seemed  emblematic  of 
paradise  ere  man  and  woman  came  to  mar  its  serenity. 

Here  Julia  Lester  passed  her  time,  day  after  day,  never 
tiring  of  looking  on  the  scene  before  her,  and  slowly  return- 
ing to  health — would  we  could  say  happiness,  but  that  was 
a  state  she  would  never  know  again.  She  felt  this  in  her 
heart,  and  while  she  determined  to  do  her  best  to  perform 
the  duty  that  had  been  allotted  her  by  Providence,  she  real- 
ized that  her  life  on  earth  would  be  bitter,  and  that  she  would 
never  again  know  joy.  The  presentiment  grew  upon  her  that 
she  would  never  more  meet  Eustis.  At  times  she  could,  in 
her  mind's  eye,  see  him  lying  on  a  cot,  with  pale  face  and  fe- 
verish lips,  and  strange  hands  ministering  to  his  wants,  while 
she  should  have  been  there  to  tend  and  care  for  him.  Yet 
never  once  in  her  thoughts  did  she  give  the  slightest  cre- 
dence to  the  foul  charge  that  had  been  brought  against  him. 

June  is  the  month  of  flowers,  and  once  a  day,  sometimes 
twice,  a  basket  of  beautiful  roses  would  be  sent  to  her  room. 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  63 

When  she  inquired  ^vho  sent  them,  she  was  invariably  in- 
formed that  Mr.  Merton  was  the  donor,  and,  though  she 
liked  flowers,  she  could  not  help  saying  to  herself  :  "I  wish 
some  one  else  had  sent  them  ;  he  seems  to  be  a  kind  man, 
but  I  can  not  get  over  my  antipathy  for  him.  He  is  hid- 
eously ugly."  But  Merton  knew  nothing  of  her  thoughts — 
his  flowers  were  accepted,  and  he  was  satisfied.  He  deter- 
mined to  win  Julia,  if  it  took  him  years. 

She  had  heard  of  all  his  goodness  to  her  and  her  sisters 
during  her  illness,  how  he  had  sent  down  stores  and  provis- 
ions for  them  all,  and  the  choicest  wines  and  cordials.  The 
finest  hot-house  fruit  was  procured  for  her,  and  there  was  no 
wish  that  she  expressed  that  had  not  been  fulfilled.  Of  this 
Julia  was  daily  informed  by  the  tidy  little  housekeeper  whom 
Mr.  Merton  had  sent  to  nurse  her,  and  who  was  never  tired 
of  singing  her  employer's  praises,  as  she  had  been  instructed 
to  do,  sometimes  ad  7iaiiseam^  for  Julia  grew  silent  under 
these  constant  encomiums.  "What  troubles  me,"  she  said 
to  her  nurse,  "  is  that  I  am  under  obligations  to  Mr.  Merton 
which  I  can  never  repay." 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  miss,"  she  replied,  "  don't  fash  your  'ead 
about  that ;  your  good  wishes  will  be  return  enough  for  him." 

She  sent  for  Mrs.  Foster  one  day  when  she  felt  strong- 
er than  usual,  and  when  the  housekeeper  entered,  said  : 
*'  Tell  me  exactly  our  condition.  How  much  money  have  we 
in  the  house  t  " 

"  Well,  miss,"  said  the  good  woman,  wiping  the  tears 
from  her  eyes,  *'  as  to  the  money  in  the  'ouse  of  hour  hown, 
there's  not  a  penny — leastwise  not  has  I  knows  of;  but  I  must 
tell  you  that  we  have  plenty  belongin'  to  Mr.  Merton,  which 
'e's  never  'appy  hunless  'e's  sendin'  it  'ere.  'E's  a  hangel, 
hif  hever  there  was  one  hin  the  world.  'E  'as  sent  hus 
everythink  has  'as  been  wanted,  and  more  besides,  an'  the 
Lord  only  knows  what  we'd  a  done  without  'ira,  leastwise, 
it  seems  so  to  me." 

"  We  must  learn  to  do  without  help,"   said  Julia,  while 


64  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

her  lips  quivered.  "  We  must  live  on  our  own  resources,  Mrs. 
Foster." 

"  Ah,  then,  ye'll  all  starve,"  said  the  good  woman.  "  Your 
good  father  didn't  leave  a  farthin'  behind,  except  what  is  in 
the  furniture.  We  tried  to  sell  some  of  that  while  you  were 
out  of  your  senses,  and  now  the  creditors  will  be  besiegin' 
the  'ouse,  miss,  for  their  dues.  Your  father,  God  bless  'im, 
died  much  in  debt — leastwise  'is  creditors  'ave  brought  many 
bills  'ere,  hand  I  'ave  not  a  soumarkee  to  pay  them  with."  She 
took  from  her  pocket  a  roll  of  accounts  which  she  placed 
in  Julia's  hands.  The  latter  looked  them  over,  the  varying 
emotion  expressed  by  her  countenance  showing  that  the 
bills  were  of  an  amount  very  much  greater  than  she  had 
expected. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  those  of  the  housekeeper,  with  an- 
guish depicted  in  her  face.  *'  Mrs.  Foster,  "  she  exclaimed, 
in  tremulous  tones,  "  this  means  ruin  and  beggary  !  These 
bills  amount  to  more  than  a  thousand  pounds.  Where  can 
we  raise  the  money  to  pay  that  amount  ?  " 

*'  I  don't  know"  said  the  housekeeper,  bursting  into 
tears,  "  but  I  'ope  ^  the  Lord  will  temper  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Julia,  "  that  is  very  well,  but  the  Lord  don't 
help  those  who  don't  help  themselves.  I  must  arouse  myself, 
and  give  up  mourning  over  my  selfish  griefs  when  such  a 
calamity  is  threatened  to  those  I  love  and  who  are  dependent 
now  on  my  exertions.  Get  me  my  clothes,  and  I  will  dress 
myself,  and  try  and  cheer  my  sisters  up — poor  little  dar- 
lings, they  are  grieving  their  hearts  away.  Call  Mary  and 
tell  her  to  come  and  dress  me."  But  when  she  had  stood 
up  a  moment,  what  with  the  fatigue  and  excitement,  she 
was  obliged  to  sit  dov/n  again,  almost  fainting.  She  raised 
the  window  and  the  soft  air  revived  her. 

What  a  lovely  day  it  was  !  and  how  balmy  the  atmos- 
phere !  All  nature  seemed  to  glow  with  a  beauty  she  had 
never  witnessed  before.     The  golden  light  of  summer  was 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  65 

playing  upon  the  tangled  boughs  of  trees  and  the 
bright  clematis  climbing  the  trunks  of  sturdy  oaks  ;  the  air 
was  filled  with  fragrance  from  clumps  of  roses  that  fringed 
the  border  of  a  mimic  lake,  where  the  swallows  darted  to 
and  fro  with  a  velocicy  that  almost  defied  the  sight — now 
swooping  down  to  drink  the  crystal  water,  anon  darting 
through  the  myriads  of  little  insects  that  filled  the  air.  Two 
children  were  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  water  sailing  their 
tiny  boats.  A  light  zephyr  just  rippling  the  surface  served 
to  swell  the  sails  and  sent  the  venturesome  barks  on  what 
was  considered  as  distant  voyages.  -  The  children's  voices 
echoed  with  delight  through  the  silent  woods.  It  was  a 
lovely  scene  and  a  landscape  that  might  well  illume  a  paint- 
er's canvas. 

Julia,  with  her  head  on  her  hand,  looked  down  upon  all 
this  and  seemed  for  a  moment  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  the 
scene  ;  then  she  started  up  and  burst  into  tears.  "  My  God  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  "how  beautiful  is  this  world  and  how  wretch- 
ed is  this  life  !  Less  than  one  year  ago  life  was  redolent 
with  sweet  perfumes,  but  now  there  is  not  left  me  one  single 
joy  on  earth.  In  one  short  half-year,  father,  lover,  and  lov- 
er's father  all  taken  away,  and  I,  perhaps,  too,  soon  to  fol- 
low—and then  what  will  become  of  those  two  dear  sisters, 
who  will  have  no  one  to  whom  they  can  look  for  love  and 
protection  ?  But  I  must  exert  myself  in  the  little  time  there 
is  left  to  me  for  the  benefit  of  others.  Farewell,  bright 
scenes  which  have  gladdened  my  youth  !  Farewell,  fond 
remembrances  that  have  grown  with  my  growth  and  strength- 
ened with  my  strength  !  I  must  not  cherish  them  or  they 
will  make  me  loiter  by  the  way.  My  mind  must  now  awake 
to  the  stern  realities  of  life,  and  I  must  begin  the  battle  with 
poverty — the  hardest  fate  one  can  be  subjected  to  who  has 
never  known  anything  but  love  and  an  abundance  of  every- 
thing that  tended  to  make  life  desirable."  So  saying,  she 
closed  the  window  with  a  sigh  and  one  long  look,  as  if  she 
was  bidding  adieu  to  the  world  forever. 
5 


66  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

Julia  then  rang  for  the  maid  and  told  her  to  take  the  list 
she  gave  her  and  go  around  to  all  the  tradesmen  men- 
tioned there  and  ask  them  to  come  to  the  house.  In  an 
hour  Julia  was  informed  that  the  tradesmen  were  all  down- 
stairs ready  to  see  her,  and,  supported  by  the  maid,  she 
descended  to  the  study.  The  men  stood  in  respectful  at- 
titude to  receive  her.  She  addressed  them,  and  in  a  few 
words  told  them  of  her  embarrassments  and  informed  them 
that  the  property  she  possessed  would  be  sold  and  the 
bills  paid — all  she  asked  was  a  little  time  to  enable  her  to 
make  arrangements. 

One  of  the  tradesmen  stepped  forward.  "  Why,  Miss 
Lester,"  he  said,  "you  owe  us  nothing.  All  our  bills  were 
paid  a  month  ago,  to  the  last  farthing." 

Julia  was  astounded  ;  her  face  flushed  and  her  eyes  shone 
with  a  light  not  seen  in  them  for  many  weeks,  but  she 
kept  cool.     "  Who  paid  these  bills  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mr.  Merton,"  replied  the  man,  "  who  informed  us  that 
he  was  the  executor  of  the  estate." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaimed.  She  did  not  know  whether  to 
feel  glad  or  sorry  at  this  news,  for,  notwithstanding  Mr.  Mer- 
ton's  kindness,  there  was  something  about  the  man  she  could 
not  like.  In  judging  men  there  is  an  intuition  in  women  far 
keener  than  any  existing  in  the  opposite  sex.  These  gentle 
creatures  can  detect  the  first  semblance  of  affection  toward 
themselves,  as  the  birds  among  the  boughs  welcome  or  shun 
the  strutting  male  who  with  trembling  wings  offers  himself 
a  victim  on  the  altar  of  love.  Julia,  however,  said  nothing, 
but  dismissed  the  tradesmen  kindly  and  went  to  her  room 
to  ponder  over  this  new  difficulty.  She  could  not  consent 
to  remain  under  such  obligations  to  Mr.  Merton.  She  con- 
sidered this  to  be  only  a  temporary  arrangement,  not  a  per- 
manent relief. 

About  the  time  Julia  Lester  was  talking  to  the  tradesmen, 
Mr.  Merton  was  writing  in  his  office.  He  rang  the  bell 
and  the  sneaking  clerk  entered.     "  Here,   Brush,"  said  his 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  6/ 

master,  "  take  these  two  letters,  copy  them  in  Eustis  Ferris's 
handwriting,  and,  if  you  do  the  job  well,  it  will  be  the  best 
paying  forgery  you  ever  committed." 

Brush  winced  at  this  remark.  "  I  wish,  sir,"  he  said, 
**  that  you  would  not  call  these  little  exhibitions  of  pen- 
manship ^forgeries'  It  gives  me  a  kind  of  a  crick  in  the 
neck." 

"That,  sir,"  said  Merton,  "is  only  premonitory  of  what 
will  happen  to  you  if  you  do  not  do  my  work  as  I  want  it 
done.  In  six  months,  if  you  do  well,  I  will  send  you  to 
America,  where  you  will  be  a  free  man  and  eligible  to  the 
highest  office.  Sit  down  there  at  my  desk  and  copy  these 
letters.'* 

Brush  obeyed,  and  in  an  hour  the  letters  were  finished. 
Merton  examined  them  carefully.  "  You  are  improving  all 
the  time,"  he  said.  Then  taking  from  a  drawer  the  envelope 
with  the  Melbourne  postmark,  which  he  had  opened  without 
tearing  or  soiling,  he  inclosed  the  two  letters,  one  directed 
to  Julia  and  one  to  Eustis's  father.  He  then  put  on  his  hat 
and  walked  to  the  rectory. 

On  arriving  there  he  was  told  that  Miss  Lester  was  in 
the  study,  and  sent  in  his  card.  Julia  was  glad  of  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  him.  Never  did  fairer  vision  meet  his  eyes 
when  he  looked  on  the  woman  for  the  possession  of  whom 
he  would  risk  half  his  wealth.  If  she  was  beautiful  in  health, 
she  seemed  angelic  in  her  weak  condition.  Her  large,  lumi- 
nous eyes  shone  like  stars,  her  pale  cheeks  were  slightly 
tinged  with  color,  her  pearly  teeth  glistened  between  the 
half-opened  lips,  in  the  act  of  addressing  her  visitor,  and  the 
shapely  hands,  lying  on  her  lap,  might  have  served  as  mod- 
els for  a  sculptor. 

Merton  stood  spell-bound  at  the  sight  before  him,  and 
stepping  forward  he  gently  raised  the  hand  she  had  not  of- 
fered, and  pressed  it  kindly.  "  I  am  too  happy,"  he  said,  "  to 
welcome  you  once  more  to  returning  health,  and  hope  we 
may  long  have  you  among  us  to  brighten  our  lives  and  cheer 


68  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

up  your  dear  little  sisters,  who  are  now  so  dependent  upon 
you." 

Julia  went  straight  to  the  point.  There  was  no  sympa- 
thy between  her  and  her  visitor,  and  she  could  not  for  the 
soul  of  her  pretend  to  any  sentiment.  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you,  Mr.  Merton,"  she  said,  "  for  several  reasons.  First,  to 
thank  you  for  your  great  kindness  to  me  and  mine  in  our 
time  of  tribulation  ;  second,  to  tell  you  that  I  know  of  your 
generosity  in  relieving  my  father's  estate  from  the  debts  that 
hung  over  it  ;  then  to  say  that  I  want  what  little  property 
we  have  sold  that  you  may  reimburse  yourself  for  the  ex- 
pense you  have  been  put  to,  as  we  have  no  claim  upon  you 
whatever.  I  shall  always  remember  your  kindness  with 
pleasure,  yet  I  can  not  consent  to  remain  under  such  obli- 
gations even  to  the  best  of  my  friends." 

Merton  could  have  snapped  his  jaws  together  louder  than 
he  had  ever  done  in  his  life  before,  but  he  controlled  him- 
self. "  My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  in  his  blandest  tones, 
"  everything  shall  be  as  you  wish,  I  am  too  happy  to  have 
been  of  service  to  you,  which  has  not  put  me  to  the  least 
inconvenience.  But  how  unfortunate  I  am  !  where  I  hoped 
to  please  I  fear  to  have  given  offense." 

"  Oh  !  no,"  interrupted  Julia. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  continued  Merton,  "and  allow  me  to 
finish.  You  may  see  reason  in  what  I  say.  Here  I  am — a 
lone  man  with  thousands  at  my  disposal,  with  not  one  per- 
son of  kin  to  me  in  the  world,  and  not  allowed  to  expend 
that  wealth  in  a  manner  that  would  give  me  most  pleasure, 
even  for  the  children  of  a  dear  friend.  Your  property,  if 
sold,  would  not  cover  the  indebtedness,  and  it  would  be  a 
useless  sacrifice.  You  would  have  to  start  out  into  the 
world  and  make  a  living  for  yourself  and  two  sisters,  who 
are  doubly  dear  now  that  they  are  entirely  dependent  on 
you.  The  world  is  a  cold  place,  Miss  Lester,  for  those  who 
seek  sympathy — who  have  lost  their  all  and  depend  on 
friends  to  help  them.     I  have  tried  it  and  know  what  it  is. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  69 

Friends  do  not  spring  up  in  times  of  adversity  as  they  do 
in  days  of  prosperity  when  you  have  everything  to  make 
you  happy  and  want  for  nothing,  in  fact,  can  dispense  favors. 
It  is  that  condition  of  affairs  that  attracts  friends.  When 
you  have  no  bones  to  throw  to  a  dog  he  will  shun  you — if 
you  can  not  feed  your  friends  they  become  like  the  dogs. 
Did  you  ever  read  Shakespeare's  '  Timon  of  Athens,'  Miss 
Lester  ?  If  not,  read  it  and  ponder  over  it  before  I  see  you 
again.  Do  not  come  to  any  rash  conclusion.  Think  how 
much  I  can  do  and  am  anxious  to  do  for  you  and  your  sis- 
ters, and  if  you  still  insist  on  depriving  me  of  the  pleasure, 
then  I  will  submit  to  the  mandate  that  will  cause  me  more 
unhappiness  than  anything  in  life.  Take  time  to  think  it  all 
over,  and  in  three  days  I  will  come  back  for  your  answer. 
There  is  one  thing  you  will  be  obliged  to  submit  to  until 
you  can  make  arrangements  for  a  support,  and  that  is  to  be 
my  debtor  until  you  can  see  your  way."  He  extended  his 
hand  and  she  took  it. 

Julia  was  not  proof  against  all  this  kindness.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears  and  she  burst  out  crying,  and  then  sat  down 
sobbing,  while  Merton  looked  on,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  tri- 
umph, though  she  did  not  see  it.  "Ah,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, ''  this  is  the  humor  in  which  to  win  a  woman.  Such  for- 
tifications are  not  to  be  carried  by  cannon — you  must  touch 
their  sympathy,  gain  the  name  of  friend — friendship  will 
soon  turn  to  love." 

"There,  now,"  he  said,  "don't  cry.  I  will  go  away  and 
come  some  other  time.  You  will  think  differently  after  con- 
sidering this  matter  more  closely.  And  now,  good-day. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  send  my  carriage  every  day  to  take 
you  and  your  sisters  out  riding  ?  " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Julia,  her  tears  starting  afresh. 

As  Merton  reached  the  door  he  stopped.  "  I  almost  for- 
got the  main  object  of  my  visit,"  he  said.  "  As  executor  of 
the  Ferris  property,  all  papers  come  to  me.  Among  others, 
a  letter  arrived  this  morning  from  Australia  directed  to  Mr. 


'JO  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

Ferris.  I  see  the  direction  is  in  the  handwriting  of  his  son, 
who  is,  I  am  told,  a  friend  of  yours.  There  may  be  some- 
thing in  this  letter  that  may  interest  you,  and  I  give  it  to  you 
with  authority  to  open  it.  If  it  is  a  business  letter,  please  re- 
turn it  to  me." 

Julia  sprang  up  with  great  excitement  to  receive  the  let- 
ter. Joy  was  expressed  most  unmistakably  upon  her  face. 
Her  eyes  gleamed  with  delight.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed 
and  her  half-opened  lips  quivered.  She  almost  snatched 
the  letter  from  her  visitor's  hands  and  clasped  it  to  her  breast 
as  she  knew  Eustis's  handwriting  on  the  envelope  at  once. 
This  was  the  first  happy  hour  she  had  felt  since  her  lover 
departed,  and  all  those  days  when  she  had  lain  half  conscious 
upon  her  bed,  with  her  eyes  gazing  on  vacancy,  she  was  look- 
ing for  a  letter  from  that  far  off  land  whither  her  lover  had 
fled  to  escape  justice.  Oh,  long,  weary  days  and  sad  and 
wakeful  nights  '  Oh,  long  watched  for  letter,  that  would 
bring  balm  to  her  wounded  heart!  The  first  had  now  all 
vanished.  The  last  had  come  in  time  to  renew  life — the  life 
almost  perished.  Everything  would  now  be  explained. 
Her  father's  words  would  no  longer  be  an  enigma  to  her — 
those  words  which  she  had  always  considered  as  the  effects 
of  fever.  Her  sorrows  seemed  to  heal  as  if  by  magic,  and  no 
one  would  have  taken  her  for  the  same  Julia  they  had  seen 
an  hour  before. 

Mr.  Merton  watched  her  transports  with  a  cold  smile. 
He  thought  to  himself:  "My  turn  will  come  next,  and  all 
these  transports  will  be  buried  in  the  disgrace  of  the  man 
whom  she  has  exalted  to  so  high  a  pedestal.  To-morrow, 
she  will  sing  a  different  tune  and  will  be  the  first  to  seek  my 
assistance,  for  her  love  will  be  practically  dead.  I  will  be 
able  to  say  with  Richard  IH  : 

Was  ever  woman  in  such  humor  wooed  } 
Was  ever  woman  in  such  humor  won  ? 

And  stepping  from  the  room  and  closing  the  door  quietly 
behind  him,  he  went  away,  his  heart  as  bitter  against  Eustis 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  7 1 

as  if  that  young  man  had  done  him  a  great  injury.     He  did 

not  remember  that  but  for  him  Eustis  Ferris  would  have 

been  an  honored  man  ;  that  he  had  caused  the  death  of  Mr. 

Lester  and  ruined  the  Hfe  of  his  daughter.     But  what  did  he 

care  for  that.?     He  had  ruined  lives  before  and  would  have 

consigned  thousands  to  destruction  could  he  only  have  his 

desires  gratified. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Merton  had  gone,  Julia  went  to  her  room, 

with  her  cherished  treasure  pressed  close  to  her  bosom,  and 

when  she  had  locked  her  door,  she  threw  herself  on  her 

knees  and  thanked  God  for  his  infinite  mercy  in  bringing 

her  so  much  happiness.     She  little  dreamed  of  the  cup  that 

was  to  be  presented  to  her  lips.     As  soon  as  she  could  still 

the  tumultuous  beating  of  her  heart,  she  sat  down  to  read 

the  work  of  Mr.  Brush's  artistic  hand.     The  first  letter  was 

as  follows : 

"Melbourne,  March  4,  18—. 

"My  darling  Julia:  This  letter  will  both  pain  and 
disgust  you,  for  I  know  that  your  noble  nature  can  have  no 
sympathy  with  one  who  has  descended  to  the  crimes  that  I 
have,  and  if  I  did  not  release  you  from  an  engagement  so 
degrading  to  you,  I  am  sure  that  you  would  immediately 
cancel  it  on  hearing  of  my  criminality.  I  am  no  more  fitted 
to  be  linked  with  you  than  the  hawk  with  the  dove.  I  left 
you  under  the  impression  that  I  had  gone  to  America,  in- 
stead of  which  I  came  to  Australia.  America  has  an  extra- 
dition treaty  with  England,  and  criminals  can  not  there  hope 
to  escape  from  the  law  (for,  Julia,  I  am  a  fugitive  from  jus- 
tice), but  in  Australia  I  am  lost  among  the  thousand  and 
one  villains  who  seek  this  country  to  escape  punishment. 

"  You  can  never  know  what  I  have  gone  through  with 
since  I  left  the  land  where  all  my  happiness  in  life  is  cen- 
tered. You  will  never  know,  for  after  this  writing  I  shall 
seek  the  bush  and  bury  myself  among  the  criminals  who  have 
gone  there  for  safety. 

"The  first  step  in  crime  taken,  one   descends  with  a 


;2  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

velocity  he  never  dreamed  of,  but  your  pure  mind  can  not 
comprehend  the  gradations  of  crime  which  a  vile  man  will 
go  through  ere  he  stops.  For  you  to  think  of  me  more 
would  be  to  profane  your  pure  soul.  The  jackal  and  the 
timid  gazelle  could  never  mate  any  more  than  you  could 
cast  your  destiny  with  mine, 

"Go,  then,  and  forget  me,  and  remember  that  while  you 
are  associated  with  all  that  is  good  and  beautiful,  I  am  linked 
with  crime,  and  you  may  yet  live  to  hear  that  I  am  breaking 
stone,  with  a  ball  and  chain  to  my  leg,  on  the  public  roads 
of  Australia,  where  every  person  can  point  to  me  and  say, 
*That  is  the  great  forger  who  so  well  deserves  his  fate.' 

*'  I  have  told  you  all  that  you  need  know.  Pray  God,  if 
you  will,  that  I  may  descend  no  lower  in  crime,  but  I  have 
lost  all  right  to  any  one's  prayers,  and  the  only  consolation 
I  have  is  to  know  that  I  was  once  betrothed  to  a  pure  spirit. 
My  greatest  punishment  is  that  she  will  despise  me  all  the 
rest  of  her  life. 

"  Yours,  EusTis  Ferris." 

Julia  opened  this  letter  with  a  rapture  words  can  not  ex- 
press. The  first  lines  struck  her  with  astonishment.  Her 
head  began  to  reel,  her  temples  seemed  as  if  about  to  burst, 
her  eyes  became  so  dim  that  she  could  not  see  the  words, 
and  she  felt  as  if  she  were  dying.  Clutching  the  letter  in  her 
hand  and  throwing  her  arms  up  in  the  air,  she  gave  a  pierc- 
ing shriek  and  fell  fainting  to  the  floor. 

The  shades  of  evening  were  falling  when  the  poor  girl 
began  to  regain  consciousness.  On  going  up-stairs  she  had 
told  her  sisters  to  take  the  Merton  carriage  when  it  came 
and  go  for  a  drive.  No  one  in  the  house  had  heard  her 
scream,  the  sisters  had  not  returned,  and  there  on  the  floor 
lay  the  unconscious  girl  without  aid.  She  might  have  died, 
and  it  would  have  been  better  for  her  if  she  had  done  so, 
but  Providence  decreed  otherwise,  and  she  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  crawl  to  the  bed  and  throw  herself  upon  it.     Here 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


73 


she  was  found  by  the  housekeeper  muttering  incoherently 
and  with  a  high  fever.  The  surgeon  was  sent  for,  and  again 
took  charge  of  the  sweet  girl  whose  condition  had  before 
been  so  alarming. 

When  the  surgeon  came  the  letter  was  still  clutched 
tightly  in  her  hand.  He  administered  a  quieting  draught, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  she  was  in  a  fitful  sleep.  The  doctor 
then  removed  the  letter  from  her  grasp,  saying  :  "  Now  I 
see  that  I  have  to  minister  to  a  mind  diseased,  but  I  hope  I 
can  pull  her  through."  He  put  the  two  letters  carefully 
into  a  drawer  and  proceeded  to  watch  his  sleeping  pa- 
tient. 

We  will  pass  over  the  next  three  weeks,  in  which  Julia 
hung  between  life  and  death.  She  recovered  at  last,  but 
oh  !  so  different  from  the  beautiful  girl  we  have  before  men- 
tioned. Her  face  was  sad,  so  sad  that  it  pained  one  to 
see  it,  but  there  was  a  firmness  and  look  of  determination 
about  the  mouth  that  spoke  volumes — a  determination  to 
live  and  do  her  duty  no  matter  what  it  cost  her. 

The  scoundrel  who  had  been  the  cause  of  all  this  misery 
called  frequently  to  inquire  about  her,  and  supplied  all  the 
necessaries  of  life,  so  that  everything  ran  along  smoothly  at 
the  rectory.  Julia  finally  came  down-stairs  and  took  charge 
of  the  house  and  began  to  restore  it  to  a  more  comfortable 
condition  than  it  had  seen  for  some  time.  Mr.  Merton 
called  in  the  evening,  and  was  admitted.  Julia  had  been 
told  of  all  his  kindness,  and  received  him  pleasantly  if  not 
warmly.  He  spent  an  hour  with  her  and  her  sisters,  chat- 
ting so  agreeably  that  when  he  went  away  she  had  ceased 
to  think  him  so  ugly.  He  came  day  after  day,  and  always 
brought  something  to  add  to  the  pleasure  of  Julia  or  her 
sisters,  until  at  last  they  looked  for  him,  and  if  he  happened 
not  to  come  the  evening  passed  less  pleasantly.  Finally 
Julia  commenced  asking  him  to  tea,  and  in  the  end  he  be- 
came the  familiar  of  the  house.  He  was  now  as  firmly  es- 
tablished as  if  he  had  known  the  girls  from  childhood. 


;4  ARTHUR  ME R TON. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  HEART  that  has  been  bruised  by  the  acts  of  one  dearly 
loved  will  either  break  or  lean  on  another  who  comes  for- 
ward and  holds  it  up,  lets  it  feel  that  it  has  a  friend  upon 
whom  it  can  rely,  and  wards  off  the  cruel  shafts  too  often 
aimed  at  those  in  adversity.  Time  went  on.  Julia,  like  the 
Spartan  boy  with  the  fox  gnawing  at  his  vitals,  bore  her 
mental  anguish  unflinchingly.  She  seldom  smiled,  but  went 
about  performing  her  duties  in  the  most  systematic  manner. 

She  had  formed  plans  for  her  future,  and  now  she  deter- 
mined to  put  them  into  execution.  When  Mr.  Merton 
came  in  as  usual  in  the  evening,  she  asked  to  speak  to 
him  confidentially  in  the  next  room.  She  there  confided 
her  plans  to  him,  which  were  to  sell  the  cottage,  reimburse 
him  for  the  expenses  he  had  incurred  in  her  behalf,  and 
with  what  was  left  go  to  some  large  town  and  teach  music 
for  the  support  of  her  sisters  and  herself. 

This  was  the  opportunity  Merton  awaited.  He  looked 
anxiously  at  Julia  while  she  was  talking,  her  lips  quivering 
with  emotion  and  her  eyes  bedewed  with  tears.  She  was  in 
the  frame  of  mind  a  woman  would  naturally  be  in  who  was  on 
the  point  of  giving  up  the  home  of  her  youth  to  wander  off 
in  search  of  a  livelihood.  He  smiled  inwardly  with  joy  at 
the  situation,  and  said  to  himself,  "  The  jewel  is  mine  at 
last."  He  tried  to  look  mournful  over  the  decision  Julia 
had  reached  but  hardly  succeeded. 

When  she  had  ceased  talking  he  looked  at  her  intently. 
He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  beautiful,  not- 
withstanding the  sad  expression  of  her  face.  "  Miss  Lester," 
he  said,  "yours  is  a  noble  determination,  and  if  there  existed 
any  circumstances  justifying  the  sacrifice  you  propose  to 
make  I  should,  perhaps,  commend  your  choice,  but  there  is 
nothing.  You  have  been  brought  up  in  comfort,  I  may  say 
in  luxury,  and  are  totally  unfitted  to  struggle  with  adver- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  75 

sity.  You  are  by  education  and  nature  suited  to  adorn  the 
highest  position  in  the  land,  yet  you  would  descend  to  be- 
come a  music-teacher,  subject  to  the  caprices  of  the  common 
herd,  who  will  delight  in  making  you  feel  what  they  con- 
sider their  superiority.  Listen  to  me,  and,  I  pray  you,  listen 
patiently. 

''There  may  seem  to  be  selfishness  in  my  objection  to 
your  proposed  plan,  but  that  selfishness  is  based  on  a  de- 
sire for  your  happiness  and,  if  you  permit  me  to  say,  on  mine. 
It  would  be  impossible  for  any  one  to  live  near  you,  be  with 
you,  or  see  you  calmly  following  the  pursuits  of  life  while 
your  heart  is  so  sore  at  the  recent  death  of  your  father,  and 
not  love  and  admire  you."  At  these  words  Julia  started  and 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  him, 

"Providence  would  be  thwarted  in  its  intentions  were 
you  to  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  obliged  to  follow  the  course 
you  have  marked  out  for  yourself,  and  I  should  be  the 
most  miserable  of  men  to  think  that  with  all  the  wealth  at 
my  disposal,  and  with  neither  kith  nor  kin,  that  you  think 
so  little  of  me  as  not  to  allow  me  to  put  aside  a  portion 
of  it  for  your  use." 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Merton,"  she  said,  kindly,  "  but  I  can 
not  be  dependent." 

"  Then,  Miss  Lester,  let  me  approach  you  by  another 
road.  You  have  two  sisters  in  your  care — what  would  be- 
come of  them  in  case  of  any  accident  ?  You  are  in  a  deli- 
cate state  of  health,  unable  to  perform  the  work  you  in- 
tend to  undertake.  It  is  wearing  beyond  anything  you  can 
imagine,  and  you  would  sink  under  it.  Away  from  your 
friends  and  among  strangers,  who  would  have  sympathy  for 
you  ?     Vv' hat  would  your  dear  sisters  do  without  you  .?  " 

Julia  felt  every  moment  as  if  she  would  burst  into  tears. 
This  man  with  so  homely  a  face,  but  with  a  heart  so 
kind,  grew  to  large  dimensions  in  her  eyes.  He  looked  like 
a  good  friend  to  lean  upon,  but  she  shook  her  head.  "  I 
must  trust  in   God,  as  my  father  always  taught  me  to  do," 


76  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

she  said,  "  but  I  am  thankful  to  you  for  all  your  goodness. 
I  can  never  repay  you  for  one  half  you  have  done  for  me." 

''  Yes,  you  can,"  he  replied.  "  Listen,  Miss  Lester.  I  am 
alone  in  the  world.  I  have  had  many  blessings  showered 
upon  me,  but  there  is  a  void  in  my  life  that  I  would  have 
filled.  I  am  a  rough  man,  but  a  diamond  is  often  more  val- 
uable when  unpolished.  I  dread  to  utter  what  I  wish,  for 
fear  it  may  startle  you,  but  what  I  offer  you  is  a  compliment 
to  your  beauty,  your  worth,  and  your  intelligence.  Do  not 
rebuke  me  for  my  presumption,  for  I  know  I  have  nothing 
in  me  worthy  of  your  consideration." 

Julia  partly  rose  from  her  chair,  but  he  detained  her  by 
gently  placing  his  hand  on  hers.  "  Nay,  listen,"  he  said. 
''  Listen  to  these  words,  and  then  decide.  I  have  loved  you 
ever  since  the  first  day  I  saw  you,  and  loved  you  with  a 
fidelity  that  hoped  for  no  return.  I  offer  you  a  love  un- 
bounded in  its  nature,  and  lay  my  wealth  and  life  at  your 
feet  to  do  with  them  as  you  please." 

Julia  sat  staring,  her  face  suffused  with  blushes,  and  then 
she  put  her  hands  to  her  eyes  to  stop  the  tears.  She  had 
never  dreamed  of  this.  She  was  not  one  of  those  conven- 
tional girls,  used  to  the  tricks  of  society,  who  could  see  a 
proposal  long  before  it  reached  her,  and  always  held  her- 
self in  hand  to  accept  or  reject  as  circumstances  framed  her 
wishes.  She  was  frightened  at  this  proposal,  coming  as  it 
did  from  a  man  whom  she  did  not  deem  capable  of  so  lofty 
a  sentiment,  but  she  had  to  meet  the  offer  and  answer  it. 
Her  father  had  always  impressed  upon  her  that  it  was  a 
compliment  to  a  lady  when  a  gentleman  offered  her  his  hand  ; 
this  she  remembered,  and  sat  down  and  looked  Mr.  Merton 
in  the  face. 

"  Mr.  Merton,"  she  said,  "  it  would  be  a  poor  return  for 
all  your  kindness  to  me  to  accept  your  generous  offer.  I 
do  not  think  that  any  woman  should  give  her  hand  where 
her  heart  does  not  go  with  it.  I  have  no  heart  to  give  ;  mine 
is  a  withered  desert,  unworthy  the  acceptance  of  any  one, 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


77 


and,  while  I  thank  you   for  the  compliment  you  have  paid 
me,  I  love  another,  and — " 

*'  Stay  your  words,  dear  young  lady,"  interrupted  jNIerton  ; 
"  do  not  drive  me  to  such  misery  that  my  life  will  be  a 
wTeck.  Take  time  to  think.  Remember  how  much  may 
depend  upon  your  decision.  I  know  that  I  am  unworthy 
of  you,  but  remember  how  long  I  have  loved  you,  how  will- 
ing I  am  to  give  my  life  for  yours,  that  I  will  devote  myself 
to  restoring  that  heart  of  yours  to  the  tranquillity  it  has  lost. 
I  will  not  ask  your  love  now,  I  will  gain  it  in  time  by  such 
acts  of  devotion  as  you  could  never  dream  of.  Think  of 
your  sisters,  think  how  I  will  cherish  them — as  if  they  were 
my  own  flesh  and  blood.  Think  how  they  will  be  cared  for 
— so  that  the  rough  winds  of  adversity  will  never  touch 
them;  they  will  never  drink  of  the  bitter  cup  of  poverty,  and 
their  lives  will  be  passed  in  elysium  at  your  side.  They  are 
young — and  to  secure  them  from  want  of  any  kind  I  will  set- 
tle twelve  thousand  pounds  on  them  before  we  are  married." 

"You  are  exceedingly  kind,  Mr.  Merton,  but — " 

"Sleep  on  this,"  he  said,  "and  give  me  your  answer  at 
this  time  to-morrow  night.  Think  what  I  shall  suffer  while 
you  are  deliberating  and,  for  God's  sake,  do  as  I  ask  you 
before  you  come  to  a  hasty  conclusion.  It  is  my  life  that  I 
ask  at  your  hands." 

He  bowed  low  to  her,  and  left  the  room  with  an  air  of 
humility  that  would  have  become  a  mendicant  friar,  but  he 
had  no  sooner  reached  a  distance  from  the  house  where  he 
could  not  be  seen  than  he  gave  way  to  wild  exultation,  so 
that  any  one  passing  might  have  thought  him  insane. 

Julia  went  to  her  room  to  ponder  over  the  unexpected 
offer  made  to  her.  She  was  sure  that  she  could  never  marry 
Mr.  Merton,  for  she  could  never  learn  to  love  him,  and  with- 
out love  she  believed  no  woman  should  ever  marry  a  man. 
She  did  not  love — love  was  too  sacred  a  feeling  ever  to  be 
trifled  with.  But  she  was  about  to  receive  a  shock  regard- 
ing these  tender  feelings — one  that  would  shatter  her  worldly 


7^ 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


idols,  and  make  her  look  upon  the  affairs  of  life  in  a  more 
practical  way  than  she  was  accustomed  to. 

Though  her  hopes  in  regard  to  Eustis  Ferris  had  been 
scattered  to  the  winds,  she  still  loved  him.  He  had  been 
guilty  of  crime,  and  she  bade  adieu  to  the  idea  of  ever 
living  her  life  with  him,  but  she  could  not  help  loving  him, 
nevertheless.  That  secret  she  kept  locked  in  her  own  heart 
never  to  be  divulged.  Time  might,  perhaps,  bring  a  cure 
and  let  her  weary  heart  rest. 

Two  hours  passed  away  in  these  solitary  musings.  Sud- 
denly she  went  to  a  drawer  and  took  out  two  letters,  the 
one  she  had  received  purporting  to  come  from  Eustis,  the 
other  directed  to  his  father,  with  seal  unbroken.  "  This," 
she  said  to  herself,  *'  may  contain  something  that  will  excuse 
him — some  extenuating  circumstances  he  did  not  mention 
to  me.  He  may  have  made  himself  more  odious  in  my  eyes 
than  he  deserved  to  be,  though  God  knows  his  sin  is  suffi- 
ciently great  as  he  has  represented  it.  I  have  as  much 
right  to  open  this  letter  as  any  one  has,  as  it  may  relate  to 
me.  My  opening  it  can  do  no  harm,  and  if  it  is  about  bus- 
iness I  can  return  it  to  Mr.  Merton,  the  executor."  She 
broke  the  seal  and  read  as  follows  : 

•'  Melbourne,  March  4,  i8jo. 

"  Dear  father  :  Since  I  last  wrote  you,  matters  have 
gone  on  well  with  me,  and  I  am  now  holding  the  position  of 
express  agent,  bringing  gold  from  the  mines  to  Melbourne. 
It  is  a  gay  life,  or  I  should  say  rather,  a  fast  one,  and  re- 
quires all  the  cash  I  can  raise  to  keep  up  with  the  proces- 
sion. 

"  This  life  pays  me  for  coming  here — all  sunshine  and  no 
rain — and  when  I  think  how  many  years  I  threw  away  in 
stupid  Wiltshire,  I  have  no  patience  with  myself.  One  is 
swimming  here  constantly  in  a  sea  of  excitement,  and  time 
is  not  given  to  think — life  is  so  different  in  this  country  from 
anywhere  else,  and  one  floats  in  a  heaven  of  love  and  beauty. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  79 

'*  The  loveliness  of  the  women  here  exceeds  anything  I 
have  ever  seen  elsewhere.  I  once  thought  Julia  Lester  the 
handsomest  girl  I  knew,  but  there  are  beauties  in  Mel- 
bourne before  whom  she  would  pale,  and,  then,  many  of  them, 
father,  are  rich,  and  would  not  object  to  a  connection  with 
a  fine-looking  young  fellow  like  myself.  Your  son,  dear 
father,  has  become  a  regular  tramp — he  goes  traveling  about 
where  he  will,  and  it  is  impossible  to  keep  him  within 
bounds. 

"  Julia  Lester  was  always  too  saintly  for  me,  and  I  begin 
to  feel  that  I  don't  deserve  such  a  treasure,  but,  deserve  it 
or  not,  she  is  far  beyond  my  reach.  You  know  I  can  never 
return  to  England,  and  she  would  not  come  to  me  even  if 
I  asked  her,  which  I  don't  intend  to  do.  My  fate  will  be 
to  marry  in  this  country,  and  I  have  my  eye  on  a  beautiful 
girl  who  will  make  me  an  excellent  wife.  Her  father  would 
not  be  considered  '  first  chop  '  in  your  part  of  the  world, 
but  he  has  the  nuggets,  and  that  is  what  tells  out  here. 

**  Good-by,  my  dear  father.     Your  loving  son, 

"EusTis  Ferris." 

Julia  read  this  letter  without  emotion.  She  saw  that  it 
was  vulgar  and  unworthy  of  a  gentleman,  and  resolved  that 
she  would  tear  the  writer's  image  from  her  heart.  Whatever 
wickedness  he  had  been  guilty  of  she  was  not  prepared  for 
such  a  letter  as  this.  A  woman  will  forgive  almost  any  crime 
in  the  man  she  loves,  but  when  he  renders  himself  con- 
temptible in  her  eyes  there  is  an  end  of  affection. 

Julia  could  not  help  comparing  the  conduct  of  Eustis 
Ferris  with  that  of  Mr.  Merton,  who  had  tried  so  hard  to 
make  her  happy  and  had  given  her  the  last  and  strongest 
proof  of  his  affection  by  offering  her  his  hand  and  fortune. 
She  already  began  to  feel  more  kindly  disposed  toward 
the  latter.  She  shed  no  tears  over  Eustis's  letter,  but 
looked  upon  it  with  scorn,  and  then  replaced  it  in  the 
drawer  with  the  other. 


8o  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

"While  I  have  that,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  can 
look  at  it  occasionally,  it  will  strengthen  me  in  my  pur- 
pose." Then  she  kneeled  down  and  prayed  to  God  to 
give  her  light  so  that  she  should  do  all  things  for  the  best. 
At  that  moment  the  planet  Jupiter  emerged  from  behind  a 
cloud  in  all  his  glory,  while  at  the  same  time  an  aerolite 
shooting  across  the  sky  and  bursting  into  a  thousand  golden 
corruscations,  lighted  up  the  heavens  in  all  directions.  She 
stood  breathless  for  a  moment  at  witnessing  such  a  brilliant 
sight,  and,  though  a  well-educated  girl  and  far  from  super- 
stition, she  could  not  help  viewing  this  phenomenon  as  an 
augury  of  the  course  she  should  pursue.  She  retired  to  her 
bed,  and  lay  thinking  through  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 
In  the  morning  she  felt  refreshed  and  ready  to  undertake 
anything  that  might  be  demanded  of  her. 

When  Mr.  Merton  called  in  the  evening  he  found  Julia 
awaiting  him  in  the  study.  She  was  perfectly  calm,  and  he 
observed  in  her  a  spirit  of  restfulness  to  which  she  had  long 
been  a  stranger,  and  which  he  felt  sure  was  in  his  favor. 
He  looked  troubled  and  harrassed  when  he  entered  the 
room,  an  appearance  he  could  easily  assume.  He  advanced, 
took  her  hand,  and  said,  in  trembling  tones  :  "  Is  it  life  or 
death  ?  For  on  your  fiat  depends  a  life  that  would,  if  per- 
mitted, devote  itself  to  you  and  yours." 

"  Mr.  Merton,"  she  said,  "  I  have  lain  awake  all  night 
considering  the  kindness  which  since  my  father's  death 
you  have  showered  upon  me.  You  have  done  so  much  for 
me  that  I  can  never  repay  you.  The  last  few  hours  have 
shown  me  the  fickleness  of  those  I  considered  friends  and 
the  worth  of  one  on  whom  I  had  no  claim  whatever.  I 
told  you  there  was  an  obstacle  in  the  way  that  would  pre- 
vent my  becoming  your  wife.  That  obstacle  exists  no  long- 
er. I  have  read  words  since  I  saw  you  that  would  obliter- 
ate the  love  of  a  century.  I  can  not  offer  you  a  heart  such 
as  you  are  worthy  of,  but  I  can  offer  you  the  duty  and 
respect  which  you  have  a  right  to  claim  from  me,   and  if 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  8 1 

in  time  I  do  not  learn  to  hold  for  you  a  warmer  feeling, 
it  will  be  because  I  am  an  ingrate  and  unworthy  of  your 
affection.  If  you  will  accept  me  on  these  terms  I  am 
yours  and,  as  God  may  help  me,  I  will  prove  to  you  a  true 
and  faithful  wife," 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  imprinted  upon  it  a  kiss. 
She  shuddered  a  little  at  the  contact  with  his  lips.  She 
could  not  help  thinking  of  that  dreadful  mouth  which  had 
formerly  reminded  her  of  a  wolf.  She  shook  off  the  feeling, 
however,  as  if  ashamed  of  it. 

"  Now,  Julia,"  he  said,  "you  are  mine,  and  death  only 
can  part  us.  This  is  the  first  really  happy  hour  I  have 
had  in  twelve  years.  My  career  has  been  a  checkered  one, 
but  you  have  brought  sunshine  to  its  innermost  depths.  My 
whole  life  will  be  devoted  to  you,  and  it  will  not  be  my 
fault  if  we  are  not  the  happiest  pair  in  the  United  King- 
dom." 

Thus  the  engagement  took  place  and,  whether  for  weal 
or  woe,  Julia  had  committed  herself  to  a  step  from  which 
there  was  no  retracing.  That  day  three  months  was  appoint- 
ed for  the  wedding.  It  took  place  in  the  church  where 
Mr.  Lester  used  to  officiate,  and,  owing  to  the  short  time 
he  had  been  dead,  the  wedding  was  a  very  quiet  one.  In 
October,  1850,  the  marriage  of  John  Merton  and  Julia 
Lester  was  registered  in  the  church  at  Lyneham,  and  the 
bridal  pair  went  to  the  rectory,  where  Julia  had  desired 
to  stay. 

A  year  after  her  marriage  Julia  presented  her  husband 
with  a  fine  boy  that  brought  joy  to  the  mother's  heart,  for 
she  already  felt  that  want  of  something  on  which  to  fix  her 
affections  which  could  not  be  found  in  Mr.  Merton.  She 
was  kind  to  him  and  ready  to  perform  any  duty  he  required 
of  her,  but  she  found  she  could  not  love  him,  try  as  she 
might. 

Love  is  a  magic  power  which  does  not  come  at  one's 
bidding,  and  can  only  be  retained  by  thousands  of  gentle 
6 


82  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

endearments  which  spring  from  the  pure  in  heart,  who 
having  sworn  to  their  faith  on  the  altar  of  God,  spend  their 
lives  in  nourishing  the  growth  of  a  plant  which  will  some- 
times wither  at  the  approach  of  the  earliest  frost.  In  the 
space  of  one  year  Julia  had  discovered  in  her  husband 
traits  not  calculated  to  promote  affection  in  the  heart  of  a 
pure  and  gentle  woman.  He  had  promised  Julia  that  he 
would  settle  twelve  thousand  pounds  on  her  two  sisters,  and 
after  various  excuses  had  failed  to  do  so. 

Complaints  were  constantly  made  to  Mrs.  Merton  by 
operatives,  asking  her  intercession  with  her  husband  to 
prevent  their  being  dismissed  for  some  trivial  offense,  and 
when  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart  she  appealed  to  him, 
he  would  tell  her  that  women  were  net  capable  of  judging 
of  such  cases.  It  was  almost  as  bad  as  if  he  had  struck 
her  a  blow.  When  his  son  was  born  he  seemed  to  take 
very  little  interest  in  an  event  that  would  have  made  most 
fathers  happy.  He  saw  that  everything  was  done  that 
should  have  been  on  such  occasions.  When  at  her  request 
he  had  put  a  monument  over  her  father's  grave,  he  placed 
only  a  common  stone.  This  mortified  her  very  much  and 
caused  her  bitter  tears. 

The  fact  is  Merton  soon  found  out  that  his  wife  had  no 
affection  for  him.  Love  would  not  come  at  his  bidding,  and 
he  went  so  far  as  to  tell  her  that  more  than  one  man  at  a 
time  in  her  heart  were  too  many,  especially  as  one  was  a  fel- 
on. Such  an  intercourse  could  not  be  a  happy  one.  Julia 
looked  through  the  long  vista  of  years  stretching  before  her 
and  could  see  nothing  to  brighten  her  prospects.  Had 
Merton  been  anything  but  a  brute  he  might  at  least  have 
v/on  her  esteem,  but  hers  was  not  a  nature  to  love  a  man 
who  had  the  instincts  of  a  wild  beast.  After  her  son  was 
born  it  was  as  if  a  new  life  had  opened  to  her,  and  she  de- 
termined to  try  and  become  fond  of  the  father  of  her  child, 
but  he  moved  oft'  into  the  most  remote  part  of  the  house,  with 
the  excuse  that  he  did  not  intend  to  be  disturbed  by  the 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  83 

brat's  squalling.  This  disgusted  her  more  than  anything  else 
he  had  ever  done,  and  she  could  hardly  look  at  him  when 
he  entered  the  room.  When  two  hearts  are  separated  by 
an  impassable  barrier,  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to  heal  up 
breaches.  The  differences  spread  like  streamlets  overflowed 
by  the  swelling  rain  ;  then  they  grow  into  rivers,  and  are  fi- 
nally swollen  into  wide  and  impassable  oceans. 

From  the  first  month  after  Arthur  Merton  was  born 
there  was  no  peace  in  the  cottage.  His  mother's  heart  was 
wrapped  up  in  him,  and  she  gave  him  her  time  and  thoughts, 
while  the  father,  seeing  that  a  new  object  in  life  existed  for 
his  wife,  felt  that  she  would  never  have  that  love  for  him 
which  he  had  so  ardently  wished  for,  forgetting  that  it  was 
his  own  fault  and  that  he  never  displayed  any  of  that  tact 
or  affection  so  necessary  to  win  a  woman's  heart.  She  had 
told  him  from  the  first  that  she  did  not  love  him— it  was  left 
for  him  to  build  the  fire  and  light  the  flame  if  he  ever  wanted 
to  see  a  ray  of  love  beaming  from  those  beautiful  eyes.  His 
nature  was  antagonistic  to  everything  like  love,  and  thus  the 
two  had  become  as  repellent  as  the  opposite  poles  of  the 
magnet. 

Days  passed,  and  each  day  the  baby  grew  in  grace 
and  beauty.  Everything  was  bought  for  him  that  could 
please  a  mother's  heart,  and  when  six  weeks  expired  a  lovely 
baby-carriage  was  sent  home,  and,  the  weather  being  fine, 
it  was  determined  that  Arthur  Lester  Merton,  as  the  baby 
was  named,  after  his  grandfather,  should  be  taken  for  an 
airing.  At  noon  he  was  placed  in  his  carriage  and  there 
propped  with  pillows  to  give  him  all  possible  comfort  during 
the  coming  ride.  The  fond  mother  could  not  have  been 
prouder  than  when  she  saw  the  precious  one  in  the  carriage, 
winking  his  little  eyes,  for  the  first  time  subjected  to  the  full 
light  of  day. 

The  party  started  off  in  the  direction  of  the  mills,  pro- 
ceeding slowly  to  avoid  ruts  and  stones  that  might  jar  too 
roughly,  under  which  soothing  influence  the  child  went  to 


84  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

sleep,  his  mother  watching  by  his  side  while  the  careful 
nurse  propelled  the  carriage  along  the  road.  They  had 
gone  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  when  a  man  dressed  in  trav- 
eling costume  was  seen  coming  from  the  opposite  direction 
with  a  carpet-bag  in  his  hand.  As  he  came  up  he  stopped, 
raised  his  hat,  and  looked  earnestly  at  Mrs.  Merton.  It  was 
no  other  than  the  clerk  Brush  who  had  prepared  the  letters 
purporting  to  come  from  Eustis  Ferris. 

When  Mrs.  Merton  saw  this  ill-favored  person  approach- 
ing her  baby's  carriage  she  became  alarmed  and  put  her 
arms  over  the  infant  to  shield  him  from  harm,  as  a  hen  cov- 
ers her  brood  with  her  wings  at  the  approach  of  the  hawk. 
The  man  seeing  the  lady  was  alarmed,  said,  in  a  low  voice  : 
*'  Fear  nothing,  madam,  I  intend  you  no  harm.  I  have 
done  you  harm  enough  already,  and  do  not  wish  to  do  you 
any  more.  I  am  Mr.  Brush,  your  husband's  accountant, 
and  leave  England  to-morrow,  but  before  I  go  I  have  a 
confession  to  make  which  you  must  hear.  I  can  unravel 
a  mystery  and  dispossess  your  mind  of  the  belief  that  Eus- 
tis Ferris  was  untrue  to  you.  The  letters  you  received 
purporting  to  be  from  your  friend  were  forgeries.  He 
never  wrote  them,  and  all  his  letters  to  you  were  intercepted. 
I  would  like  to  speak  privately  to  you  at  your  home  for  half 
an  hour,  and  what  I  will  reveal  will  make  your  blood  run 
cold." 

Julia's  heart  almost  stopped  beating  on  hearing  these 
words.  She  feared  the  nurse  might  understand  what  Brush 
was  saying,  so  stood  a  little  to  one  side,  and  told  the  speaker 
to  go  on.  Her  prophetic  soul  assured  her  that  Brush  had 
spoken  the  truth  ;  she  thought  rapidly  and  soon  worked  out 
in  her  mind  a  chain  of  events  that  had  brought  her  to  so 
painful  a  condition.  If  the  statements  made  by  this  man 
were  true  then  her  life  had  been  wrecked,  but  as  she  looked 
at  her  child,  sleeping  sweetly  in  the  carriage,  she  said  to  her- 
self :  "  If  all  this  is  true,  I  will  take  him  away  and  live  for 
him  alone  where  no  ill  can  befall  him." 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  85 

Turning  toward  her,  Brush  continued  :  "  Mr.  Merton 
has  gone  to  Rochester,  and  will  not  return  until  to-morrow. 
If  I  do  not  tell  my  story  this  morning  you  will  never  know 
it,  for  Mr.  Merton  has  commanded  me  to  leave  England  in 
twenty-four  hours,  and  never  to  return  without  his  per- 
1  mission.  I  dare  not  disobey  him.  For  your  own  sake, 
madam,  grant  my  request." 

That  there  was  some  further  dreadful  revelation  forth- 
coming Julia  could  not  doubt  from  what  Brush  had  already 
disclosed,  a  revelation  that  would  crush  her  life  out.  Julia 
had  borne  a  great  deal  in  the  last  two  years  ;  had  felt  grief 
enough  to  have  killed  an  ordinary  woman,  but  hers  was 
that  elastic  spirit  which  repels  the  shafts  of  adversity.  She 
had  suffered  so  much  that  she  could  suffer  no  more.  She 
had  been  melted  in  the  crucible  of  affliction  until  insensi- 
ble to  mental  pain.  All  she  thought  of  now  was  shielding  her 
child  from  ills  that  might  befall  him,  and  if  that  could  be 
done  the  world  might  run  on  as  it  would.  In  a  moment 
she  had  thought  out  everything  she  had  to  do.  If  this  man 
were  lying  she  could  detect  him  ;  if  he  were  not,  then  she 
prayed  God  to  help  and  comfort  her. 

Turning  to  Brush,  she  said  :  ''  If  this  is  a  wicked  inven- 
tion with  which  you  intend  to  wreck  my  life,  may  you  re- 
ceive your  punishment  in  this  and  the  world  to  come." 

"So  help  me  God,  madam,"  said  Brush,  'Sf  I  fail  to  tell 
the  truth,  may  God  condemn  me  to  eternal  punishment.  I 
am  not  a  saint,  by  any  means,  but  I  am  an  angel  of  light 
compared  with  John  Merton." 

Julia  shuddered,  and  in  a  husky  voice  requested  Brush 
to  go  on  and  wait  for  her,  that  she  would  join  him  in  a  few 
minutes.  Brush  w^ent  as  she  desired.  In  his  heart  he  pitied 
the  lady  to  whom  he  was  about  to  divulge  the  particulars  of 
a  horrible  crime,  though  it  may  well  be  surmised  that  the 
motives  that  impelled  such  a  man  did  not  emanate  from  any 
remnant  of  principle,  but  were  instigated  by  revenge  against 
the  man  who  had  ground  him  under  his  heel.     Brush  went 


86  ARTHUR  ME R TON. 

toward  the  house,  arranging  his  story  on  the  way,  so  that 
he  could  get  through  with  it  as  soon  as  possible,  for  he  had 
to  leave  by  the  afternoon  train  in  order  to  take  passage  next 
morning  from  England.  He  dared  not  remain  in  the  country 
longer — that  would  ruin  him,  for  from  Merton's  grip  he 
could  not  escape  without  crossing  the  ocean.  He  reached 
the  house,  and  sat  in  the  porch  to  wait  for  Julia. 

She  soon  arrived,  took  the  child  from  the  carriage,  and 
gave  him  a  fond  kiss  as  she  deposited  him  in  his  crib,  and 
went  down  to  her  visitor.  She  requested  Brush  to  follow 
her  into  the  parlor,  and,  motioning  him  to  sit  down,  said  : 
"  Now  tell  me  this  strange  story  in  as  few  words  as  possible. 
If  you  bear  false  witness  God  will  punish  you." 

"I  am  not  particularly  afraid  of  Heavenly  punishment, 
madam,"  said  Brush,  "  If  it  had  been  intended  that  I 
should  be  punished  for  my  sins  I  should  have  passed  through 
all  the  pains  of  Tartarus  by  this  time.  It  is  devils  on  this 
earth  that  I  fear,  and  most  of  all  John  Merton,  Look  at 
his  wolfish  countenance  and  ask  yourself  if  there  can  be  any 
good  in  a  man  with  such  a  face." 

Julia  shuddered,  but  said  nothing. 

"  You  will  have  to  believe  me,"  said  Brush,  *'  whether 
you  want  to  or  not,  the  evidence  is  so  strong.  I  have  been 
identified  with  Mr.  Merton  for  ten  years,  during  which  time 
I  have  been  his  slave.  It  will  not  be  necessary  to  refer  to  all 
our  dealings.  What  I  tell  you  will  suffice  for  your  purpose, 
or  for  your  protection.  In  my  younger  days  Merton  con- 
victed me  of  a  crime  that  condemned  me  to  imprisonment. 
Then  he  helped  me  to  escape  to  Australia,  but  he  has  still 
evidence  against  me,  and  I  am  as  much  in  his  power  as 
ever," 

"  How  can  I  believe  a  man  convicted  of  crime  ?  "  asked 
Julia,  in  a  faltering  voice. 

"  Because  you  will  be  convinced  by  the  circumstances 
that  what  I  tell  you  is  true.  Two  years  ago  you  became 
engaged  to  Eustis  Ferris,  about  which  time  Mr.  Merton  first 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  87 

saw  you.  Captivated  by  your  beauty,  he  determined  to  win 
you,  and  in  order  to  carry  out  his  intentions,  sent  for  me — 
for  he  never  lost  sight  of  me,  as  I  was  necessary  to  his 
plans."  Brush  then  detailed  the  dark  plot  that  had  sent 
Eustis  Ferris  to  Australia  and  wrecked  the  hopes  of  his 
promised  bride. 

Julia  thought  she  would  die  while  Brush  was  reciting 
his  tale,  and  when  he  had  finished  she  wept  convulsively. 
At  last  she  exclaimed  :  "  O  God,  that  such  crimes  should 
be  permitted  to  go  unpunished  I  But  how  do  I  know  that 
you  have  not  some  revengeful  motive  in  telling  me  this  ? 
Your  hands,  by  your  own  confession,  are  too  deeply  stained 
with  crime  to  permit  me  to  accept  your  story  without  irrefrag- 
able proofs.  Give  them  to  me  at  once  !  Oh  !  poor  Eustis, 
how  he  must  have  suffered  at  my  infidelity !  And  how  is  it 
that  I  never  heard  from  him  at  all  ? " 

"  For  the  reason  that  all  his  letters  have  been  intercepted 
and  false  ones  written  to  him.  Here  is  a  letter  he  wrote  you 
which  I  secured.  Read  it,  and  you  will  see  what  misery 
Merton  has  brought  upon  two  people  who,  but  for  him, 
would  have  been  happy.  Read  this  letter,  Mrs.  Merton, 
and  you  will  see  that  it  is  not  forged." 

"  Andjiw/  forged  the  letter  I  received.^  "  she  said,  indig- 
nantly.   "Why  did  you  commit  such  a  crime  ?  " 

"  To  keep  out  of  prison,  madam.  John  Merton  can 
have  me  locked  up  at  any  time,  and  for  that  reason  I  must 
get  out  of  England  as  soon  as  possible.  Before  going,  I 
determined  I  would  do  some  good  for  once  in  my  life." 

''  You  must  be  very  wicked,"  she  said,  "  to  be  obliged  to 
stand  in  such  terror  of  any  man." 

"  I  am,  madam,  wicked  to  the  core,  but  no  crime  that 
I  ever  committed  touched  my  heart  as  this  one  has  done. 
But,  madam,  time  is  precious,  and  I  must  be  off.  Here  is  a 
letter  in  John  Merton's  handwriting.  It  is  a  draft  he  made 
for  me  to  forge  of  the  last  letter  sent  you,  purporting  to  be 
a  letter  from  Eustis  Ferris  to  his  father.     You  remember  the 


88  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

contents.  In  that  letter  Eustis  Ferris  is  made  to  speak 
slightingly  of  you,  while  the  unhappy  man  worships  the 
ground  on  which  you  stand.  I  read  the  letter  he  actually 
wrote  at  that  time.  It  was  so  full  of  love  that  none  but 
villains  like  Merton  and  myself  could  have  had  the  heart 
to  keep  it  from  you." 

*'  Oh,  my  God  !  "  exclaimed  Julia,  "  how  my  life  has 
been  blasted  !  "  and  hot,  scalding  tears  fell  from  her  eyes. 
*'  What  help  have  I  ?  What  redress  can  I  obtain  ?  Who 
will  believe  such  a  disgraceful  story }  Then  this  tale  of 
Eustis  Ferris  committing  a  forgery  will  be  brought  up 
against  him." 

*'  He  committed  no  more  forgery  than  you  did,"  said 
Brush.  "  It  was  part  of  the  plan  to  get  him  out  of  the 
country,  so  that  Mr.  Merton  could  marry  you.  The  plot 
was  so  well  laid  that  it  would  not  have  been  possible  for 
Ferris  to  escape.  The  only  thing  he  could  do  was  to  go 
away.  Had  he  defied  Merton,  long  before  this  he  would 
have  been  condemned  to  penal  servitude." 

She  shuddered  and  could  scarcely  hold  up.  "  Oh, 
poor  Eustis,"  she  cried,  in  agony,  "how  much  you  have 
borne  for  me,  while  I,  false  to  you,  believed  the  cruel  stories 
against  you,  and  even  my  dear  father  thought  you  a  forger  ! 
Life  is  over  for  me,  but  I  hope  we  shall  one  day  be  united 
in  another  and  a  better  world.  But,  Mr.  Brush,  if  all  you 
tell  me  is  true,  I  will  not  live  another  day  with  Mr,  Merton. 
I  will  take  my  child  and  go  to  the  uttermost  end  of  the 
earth.  My  soul  can  have  no  communion  with  such  a 
wretch  as  that." 

Brush  shook  his  head  deprecatingly.  "No,  madam," he 
said,  "  you  are  in  his  power  and  can  not  escape  him.  You 
must  bide  your  time  or  he  will  make  your  life  a  hell.  You 
have  a  child,  which  fact  gives  him  command  over  you  to 
wound  and  torture  you  if  you  attempt  to  oppose  him  in 
anything,  but  the  power  you  possess  over  him  by  the 
knowledge  you  have  obtained  will  enable   you    to  control 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  89 

him  in  a  measure,  so  that  he  may  treat  you  more  kindly 
than  he  does  those  who  are  in  his  hands,  and  the  day  may 
come  when  you  will  gain  a  release  from  his  tyranny.  Now 
he  has  millions  at  his  disposal  and  will  not  hesitate  to  use 
them.  He  is  ambitious  to  stand  well  in  the  county.  Be 
prudent,  or  he  will  put  you  in  a  mad-house  and  separate 
you  from  your  child." 

Julia  groaned  in  agony,  and  fell  upon  the  floor,  where  she 
sobbed  until  her  heart  almost  broke  with  anguish.  She  saw 
no  hope  of  happiness,  or  even  safety  from  persecution  in 
this  world,  and  felt  as  if  she  could  take  her  baby  and  seek 
rest  in  some  obscure  retreat,  where  no  one  could  ever 
trouble  her,  and  where  she  could  devote  herself  to  God  for 
the  remainder  of  her  life.  She  rose  from  the  floor,  and  look- 
ing Brush  earnestly  in  the  face,  said  :  "  Could  you  not  help 
me  to  reach  AustraHa .?  I  would  go  there,  if  but  to  ask  Eus- 
tis's  pardon — I  have  been  such  a  traitoress  to  him ;  but  per- 
haps he  would  scorn  me." 

"  Attempt  nothing  of  that  kind,"  said  Brush.  "  John  Mer- 
ton  has  long  arms  and  a  deep  purse.  His  power  is  great, 
and  I  hardly  hope  to  escape  him.  Two  days  ago  he  said  to 
me  :  '  England  is  not  large  enough  for  you  and  me.  In 
two  days  be  on  your  way  to  America,  and  see  that  you  hold 
no  communication  with  a  living  soul  ere  you  leave  here.' 
He  flung  me  a  fifty-pound  note,  and  left  without  another 
word.  I  shall  not,  however,  go  to  America ;  I  shall  go  to 
Southampton  and  sail  for  Australia,  where  I  shall  see  Eus- 
tis  Ferris,  tell  him  of  this  damnable  plot,  and  throw  myself 
upon  his  mercy.  He  will  kill  me,  perhaps,  but  that  would 
be  better  than  leading  the  dog's  life  I  do  here.  Be  patient, 
madam ;  all  will  be  right.  In  a  few  months  your  story  will 
be  in  the  hands  of  the  best  friend  you  have  in  the  world,  and 
on  him  you  can  rely  in  case  of  need." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  "  do  go  there.  Tell  him  all,  and  he 
will  perhaps  forgive  me,  if  you  will  only  let  him  know  how 
I  have  been  duped,  and  how  I  have  suffered  and  continue 


90 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


to  suffer.     I  will  forgive  you  your  crimes  against  myself,  and 
pray  to  God  that  he  may  forgive  you  also." 

"  And,  now,  madam,"  said  Brush,  "  I  have  but  a  short 
time  to  reach  the  train.  I  dare  not  miss  it,  so  bid  you  fare- 
well, and  hope  you  will  heed  my  advice,  and,  above  all 
things,  never  let  John  Merton  know  that  you  have  held 
communication  with  me."  With  that  he  started  off,  and 
Julia  saw  him  no  more.  Whether  he  ever  conveyed  her 
message  to  Eustis  Ferris  was  unknown  to  her,  and  for  a 
long  time  she  had  not  even  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
whether  he  went  to  Australia  or  not. 

She  reached  her  bedroom  almost  in  a  state  of  stupefac- 
tion, her  head  whirling  from  the  effect  of  the  dreadful  tale 
which  had  been  imparted  to  her  by  Brush,  and,  though  from 
his  own  account  he  was  a  great  scoundrel,  she  was  satisfied 
that  he  had  told  her  nothing  but  the  truth.  To  say  that 
she  execrated  the  man  who  called  himself  her  husband 
would  but  faintly  express  her  feelings.  She  had  no  inten- 
tion to  do  him  bodily  harm,  but  she  knelt  down  in  the  soli- 
tude of  her  chamber  and  prayed  God  to  punish  him  as  he 
deserved  to  be,  and  to  separate  her  life  from  his  as  far  as 
the  antipodes.  She  sat  by  the  cradle  of  her  boy,  and  wept 
bitterly  over  her  misfortunes  till  the  shades  of  evening  be- 
gan to  steal  over  the  landscape.  She  there  thought  and 
thought,  until  her  brain  was  wearied,  and  then  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed  and  wept  herself  to  sleep. 

Julia  remained  in  her  room  two  weeks  on  the  plea  of 
sickness,  during  which  time,  though  Merton  inquired  for  her, 
she  would  not  see  him  for  fear  she  might  do  something  to 
compromise  herself  and  Brush  who,  though  a  scoundrel  of 
the  deepest  dye,  had  acted  in  a  friendly  way  toward  her. 
She  remembered  the-  warning  he  had  given  her,  not  to  anger 
Merton  or  to  arouse  his  supicions  for  fear  that  he  would  sep- 
arate her  from  the  child  and  place  her  in  a  mad-house. 
Such  an  idea  was  like  death,  and  she  determined  to  be  on  her 
guard  in  dealing  with  the  cunning  scoundrel,  her  husband. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  91 


CHAPTER   VII. 


Another  year  passed  away,  the  child  grew  apace,  and 
the  mother's  heart  was  stirred  to  its  depths  on  witnessing 
his  beauty  and  intelligence  ?  She  was  never  lonely  now, 
but  felt  that  she  would  one  day  have  a  protector  in  her  son 
who  would  watch  over  her  and  redress  her  wrongs.  The 
father  seldom  saw  the  child,  and  then  only  when  it  went 
out  for  the  fresh  air.  By  a  tacit  understanding  the  wife 
and  husband  lived  apart,  and  she  only  met  him  at  dinner, 
where  neither  had  much  to  say.  After  the  meal  was  over, 
Julia  went  to  her  room  to  caress  her  child  and  Merton 
drifted  into  the  study  where  he  smoked  away  the  hours, 
thinking  that  he  had  wasted  money  and  time  in  marrying  a 
woman  who  treated  him  with  indifference  and  actually 
seemed  to  dislike  him.  There  was  something  in  his  wife's 
manner  that  troubled  him.  He  thought  that  Brush  might 
have  communicated  with  her  before  he  left  Wiltshire,  and  if 
so  that  would  explain  her  peculiar  behavior,  but  he  dis- 
missed the  idea,  saying  to  himself  :  "  Brush  is  at  my  mercy, 
and  is  too  much  under  my  control  to  attempt  anything  of 
that  kind."  And  so  days  and  weeks  and  months  passed 
away  while  these  two  were  drifting  farther  apart  all  the 
time. 

Julia  had  suddenly  awoke  to  the  knowledge  of  the  crime 
that  had  been  perpetrated  against  her,  and  that  she  was  in 
the  hands  of  an  unscrupulous  villain  who  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  destroy  her  and  her  child  rather  than  have  his  conduct 
known  to  the  world.  Now  that  she  had  been  put  upon  her 
guard,  this  delicate,  helpless  woman  was  playing  a  part  to 
prevent  coming  in  contact  with  her  husband,  and  at  the 
same  time  trying  not  to  excite  his  suspicions  until  she  could 
escape  with  her  child  to  some  place  of  refuge.  She  knew 
she  could  not  obtain  a  divorce  on  such  charges  as  she  could 
bring  against  him,  for  she  could  not  prove  them,  so  she  re- 


92  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

solved  to  bide  her  time.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  watched 
her  as  a  cat  would  a  mouse,  ready  to  pounce  upon  her  the 
moment  he  saw  that  she  suspected  him. 

It  was  a  dreadful  life  for  Julia.  She  had  no  companions, 
her  sisters  having  been  sent  to  a  lady's  seminary  at  Roches- 
ter, and  only  came  home  at  the  Christmas  holidays,  and 
since  his  marriage  Mr.  Merton  had  not  encouraged  visitors, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  had  given  people  to  understand  that 
he  wanted  none.  The  consequence  was  that  the  people  of 
the  cottage  were  left  to  themselves,  and  the  only  occupation 
Julia  had  was  in  taking  care  of  her  baby.  In  one  of  his  fits 
of  ill-humor,  Mr.  Merton  had  given  the  -housekeeper  charge 
of  the  house,  on  the  ground  that  Mrs.  Merton  was  entirely 
incapable  of  attending  to  it.  This  was  a  relief  to  Julia 
rather  than  otherwise,  for  she  saw  less  of  the  man  who  had 
ruined  her  life,  and  she  disliked  him  so  that  she  would  have 
been  happy  to  have  left  him  forever. 

Day  after  day  her  annoyance  increased.  On  the  final 
return  of  her  sisters  from  the  seminary,  for  the  first  time 
in  years  a  ray  of  sunshine  illuminated  her  heart.  The  child 
was  then  four  years  old,  beautiful  and  intelligent,  and  the 
house  was  for  a  time  comparatively  comfortable.  With 
the  accession  to  her  forces,  Julia  felt  more  independent,  and 
now  that  her  son  was  such  a  big  boy  she  felt  that  she  would 
soon  have  a  protector. 

Mr.  Merton  was  not  pleased  at  the  return  of  the  sisters 
from  school,  though  they  were  two  pretty  girls  who  made 
the  house  ring  with  laughter.  He  placed  so  many  restric- 
tions about  them  that  they  soon  wished  themselves  back  at 
school.  In  fact  his  time  while  in  the  house  was  spent  in 
annoying  the  family,  so  that  Julia's  position  instead  of  being 
bettered  by  the  companionship  of  her  sisters,  was  made 
much  worse,  and  she  determined  to  remonstrate  with  her 
husband  on  the  first  opportunity. 

One  day  Julia  was  sitting  in  the  study  when  Mr.  Merton 
unexpectedly  entered  the  room.     He  started  back,  for  it  was 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


93 


the  first  time  in  a  week  he  had  seen  his  wife  who  had  sedu- 
lously avoided  him. 

"  This  is  an  honor  I  did  not  expect,"  he  said,  "  but 
please  don't  let  that  brat  meddle  with  my  books  and  papers. 
The  nursery  is  the  place  for  that  kind  of  vermin,"  and  he 
looked  daggers  at  the  child,  who  ran  behind  his  mother  and 
hid  his  face  in  alarm. 

Julia  grasped  the  child  and  started  to  leave  the  room, 
indignant  at  the  epithet  used  toward  her  darling,  but  Mer- 
ton  put  himself  in  her  way  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob. 
*'  No,"  he  said,  "  you  shall  not  go  out  of  this  room  until  I 
have  had  a  talk  with  you.  Sit  down  !  "  His  jaws  snapped 
in  that  wolfish  way  that  she  had  witnessed  on  so  many 
occasions  in  the  past.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  and  she 
sat  down  again,  clasping  the  child  to  her  breast  as  if  to  pro- 
tect him. 

*'  Now,"  said  Merton,  "  give  me  some  explanation  of  your 
conduct  for  the  last  few  years.  I  am  tired  of  it,  and  I  do 
not  see  why  I  should  support  a  set  of  people  in  rebellion 
against  me,  who  do  all  they  can  to  annoy  me.  Since  your 
sisters  came  home  you  defy  me  more  than  ever,  and  if  it  was 
not  that  I  believe  you  to  be  weak  minded,  I  would  not  put 
up  with  your  conduct  a  day." 

This  was  pretty  much  like  what  the  wolf  told  the  lamb 
when  he  was  drinking  and  charged  him  with  muddying  the 
stream.  The  charge  was  so  unjust  that  Julia's  anger  was 
excited,  and  she  turned  upon  him  with  withering  scorn,  tell- 
ing him  that  he  had  made  her  life  hateful  to  her  ever  since 
their  marriage.  "  Look  at  me,"  she  said,  "  I  am  a  wreck, 
and  you  have  made  me  so." 

He  regarded  her  with  astonishment  to  think  that  any 
one  in  his  household  should  dare  address  such  language 
to  him.  "Are  you  crazy?"  he  asked.  "Do  you  court 
destruction  ?  "  His  jaws  snapped  and  his  eyes  flamed  like 
those  of  a  wild  animal. 

But  Julia  did  not  quail   before   him.      She   was  imbued 


94 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


with  a  courage  for  which  she  could  not  herself  account. 
Had  she  not  her  boy  by  her  side,  and  did  she  not  feel  safe 
while  he  was  there  ?  She  said  nothing  but  looked  defiantly 
at  her  husband. 

Merton  was  surprised  at  this,  and  like  a  coward,  he 
quailed  before  her.  Then  he  said  :  "  Listen,  Julia,  you  are 
taking  a  wrong  course.  You  do  not  go  to  work  in  the  right 
way  to  win  my  good  will.  You  are  forging  fetters  for  your 
limbs  that  will  cut  into  your  flesh  ere  you  come  to  the  end 
of  your  journey.     You  are — " 

*'Tell  me  what  forgery  means,"  she  interrupted. 

"  Forgery .?  "  he  replied.  "  Who  said  anything  about 
forgery  ?     Do  you  understand  the  English  language  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  she  said.  "  My  father  had  me  taught  thoroughly. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  the  v^oxd  forgery  means." 

He  looked  astonished  at  the  turn  matters  were  taking, 
but  replied:  ''Forgery  is  imitating  a  man's  writing  on  a 
check  and  thereby  stealing  money." 

"  Is  there  no  other  kind  of  forgery  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Can 
not  a  man  imitate  another's  writing  in  a  letter  and  steal 
away  his  character  and  happiness  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  asking  me  such  foolish  ques- 
tions ?"  he  demanded.  "  Did  you  ever  know  a  man  named 
Brush  I  had  in  my  employ  two  years  and  a  half  ago,  and 
did  he  communicate  with  you  before  he  left  this  place  for 
America?" 

She  scorned  to  lie.  "He  did,"  she  replied.  "What 
has  become  of  him  }  " 

He  turned  livid  when  she  said  this,  and  his  jaws 
snapped  loudly.  "  I  thought  so,"  he  said,  "  for  you  changed 
from  that  time.  What  does  Brush's  whereabouts  concern 
you.  Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  he  went  to  Liverpool,  and 
engaged  passage  for  America  under  his  own  name,  with  my 
detective  at  his  heels.  He  then  proceeded  to  Southamp- 
ton and  secured  passage  for  Australia,  under  the  name  of 
James  North.     The  steamxer  was  to  have  sailed  that  night, 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  95 

but  I  telegraphed  to  have  him  arrested  under  a  charge  of 
forgery  and  robbery,  and  the  fool  has  been  rotting  in  prison 
ever  since.  Did  the  ass  suppose  that  I  would  permit  him 
to  go  anywhere  but  the  place  I  directed  him  ?  I  have  a 
long  arm  and  means  to  cause  myself  to  be  obeyed,  and  I 
w^arn  you  now  that  you  are  not  exempt  from  that  obedience. 
I  claim  this  from  those  who  accept  my  bounty  and  enjoy 
my  support." 

Poor  Julia  was  almost  paralyzed  with  fear  when  she  saw 
what  power  this  man  could  exercise  over  her  and  her  child. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  with  terror,  while  the  perspi- 
ration stood  upon  her  brow  and  her  face  wore  a  look  of  de- 
spair. She  put  her  hands  to  her  head,  as  if  to  keep  it  from 
bursting,  while  her  darling  boy  stood  with  his  little  fist 
clinched  ready  to  protect  his  mother.  *'  Go  away,  bad  man," 
he  said,  "  don't  make  my  mamma  cry."  Merton  gave  a  sar- 
donic laugh,  snapped  his  jaws,  and  strode  from  the  room, 
slamming  the  door  after  him. 

Ever  since  she  had  parted  with  Kirby  Brush,  Julia  had 
buoyed  herself  up  with  the  idea  that  Eustis  Ferris  had  been 
informed  over  three  years  before  how  it  was  she  had  become 
John  Merton's  wife  and  had  exonerated  her  in  his  heart,  but 
now  all  these  hopes  were  crushed  to  earth.  Eustis  Ferris 
was,  no  doubt,  still  ignorant  of  the  fate  that  had  befallen 
her.  He  must  have  heard  of  her  marriage,  for  it  had  been 
published  in  many  newspapers  in  England  which,  no  doubt, 
had  found  their  way  to  Australia.  She  wept  until  her  eyes 
ached  to  think  that  all  her  hopes  of  an  explanation  with  her 
ill-treated  lover  had  been  dashed  to  the  ground.  And  then 
when  she  reflected  how  inhumanly  Brush  had  been  treated 
for  his  kindness  to  her  it  made  her  blood  run  cold.  In  her 
mind's  eye  she  could  see  him  in  prison,  dragging  the  weary 
hours  along,  his  naturally  attenuated  form  reduced  to  skin 
and  bones  by  the  heavy  labor  to  which  he  was  condemned. 
He  had  done  her  great  wrong,  it  is  true,  but  he  had  been 
forced  to  it  by  a  demon  who  held  him  in  his  power,  and  if 


96  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

he  had  escaped  from  Merton,  he  would  have  put  the  man 
she  loved  in  possession  of  all  the  facts  of  her  case,  and  he 
would  have  forgiven  her. 

She  sat  in  the  study  with  her  child,  who  tried  all  his  in- 
fantile endearments  to  console  and  comfort  her,  but  it  was 
useless.  Her  last  hope  had  departed,  and  she  saw  nothing 
in  the  future  but  utter  misery.  She  wished  to  lie  down  and 
die,  but  when  she  saw  her  darling  with  wistful  eyes  looking 
up  into  her  face,  she  clasped  him  convulsively  in  her  arms, 
and  said  to  herself,  "  No  !  I  will  live  for  your  sake,  and  pro- 
tect you  from  the  the  wicked  man  whom  I  so  hate." 

From  that  time  persecutions  came  thick  and  heavy,  but 
what  pained  Julia  most  was  Merton's  treatment  of  her  sis- 
ters. He  showered  every  indignity  upon  them,  denying 
them  the  necessities  of  life.  The  girls,  to  escape  the  thrall- 
dom  in  which  they  were  kept,  became  engaged  and  were 
married  at  about  the  same  time,  but  they  were  forbidden 
the  house  afterward  on  the  ground  that  they  had  married 
without  Merton's  consent,  and  he  would  neither  allow  his 
wife  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony  nor  to  visit  them. 

Julia's  life  became  so  unbearable  at  last  that  she  deter- 
mined to  escape  from  her  persecutor  at  the  first  favorable 
opportunity.  Her  boy  was  now  nine  years  old,  and  how  she 
had  ever  struggled  through  the  long  years  she  never  knew. 
Only  the  love  of  her  child  consoled  and  strengthened  her. 
She  was  but  the  shadow  of  her  former  self,  although  still 
beautiful,  but  she  appeared  like  an  ethereal  being  who  had 
left  the  realms  above  to  dwell  for  a  while  in  this  world  of  woe, 
to  teach  humanity  how  to  bear  their  sufferings  and  disap- 
pointments. She  did  not  know,  but  suspected  that  a  detect- 
ive was  set  to  watch  her,  for  what  reason  she  could  not  sur- 
mise. She  frequently,  in  her  walks,  met  a  man  who  seemed 
to  observe  her  movements.  The  tenth  year  after  her  mar- 
riage this  person  disappeared  from  the  neighborhood,  and 
she  determined  to  put  in  operation  a  plan  she  had  long  cher- 
ished.    She  had  saved  up  what  money  she  could,  and  de- 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


97 


termined  when  opportunity  offered  to  escape  to  France  and 
secrete  herself  in  some  small  village  where  no  one  would 
think  of  looking  for  her. 

One  day  her  husband  gave  the  housekeeper  an  order  to 
pack  his  portmanteau  and  started  on  the  noon  train  for  Lon- 
don for  a  week's  absence.  Another  train  left  that  night  at 
eight  o'clock  connecting  with  one  to  Dover,  and  Julia  de- 
cided to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  and  escape.  She 
packed  a  small  trunk  with  the  necessary  clothing  for  herself 
and  child,  and  at  the  proper  hour  sent  for  a  carriage.  She 
was  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  her  heart  was  beating  with 
anxiety,  Here,  at  last,  was  the  long  looked  for  chance  to 
emancipate  herself  and  child,  and  she  felt  hopeful  of  success. 
She  attired  herself  in  a  plain  gray  traveling  costume,  with 
a  thick  veil.  She  dressed  her  boy  in  girl's  clothing  with  a 
veil  over  his  face,  so  that  it  seemed  unlikely  for  any  one  to 
recognize  them.  She  alighted  from  the  carriage  at  the  sta- 
tion, and  went  straight  to  the  booking  office,  holding  her 
child's  hand,  and  booked  for  Dover.  She  looked  carefully 
over  the  room  to  see  if  there  was  any  one  she  knew,  but  there 
were  only  three  persons  in  the  office,  one  of  them  wrapped 
in  a  cloak  and  apparently  asleep.  When  she  booked  to 
Dover,  this  individual  arose,  came  noiselessly  behind  Julia, 
grasped  her  roughly  by  the  shoulder,  and  whispered  in  a 
voice  she  knew  to  her  horror,  "  Come  home,  and  don't  try  this 
again."  With  that  he  drew  her  roughly  away  from  the  win- 
dow. 

Merton  walked  straight  to  the  door  with  his  two  prison- 
ers in  charge,  pushed  them  into  the  carriage,  flung  the  trunk 
on  top,  and  said  to  the  driver  :  "  Drive  back  to  where  you 
came  from,  and  if  you  or  any  other  cabman  ever  call  at 
my  house  without  an  order  from  me  I  will  put  you  in 
'  chokey.'  " 

Julia  entered  the  house  again,  dazed  with  fear  and  an- 
guish at  witnessing  the  wonderful  power  of  this  man  of 
whom  every  one  seemed  to  stand  in  dread,  for  even  the 
7 


98  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

saucy  coachman,  who  always  had  an  impudent  word  for 
any  one  who  spoke  crossly  to  him,  seemed  subdued. 

"  Go  up-stairs,"  said  Merton,  "'  and  thank  your  stars  you 
did  not  reach  Dover,  for  I  have  a  detective  there  who  has 
been  shadowing  you  for  a  long  time.  Had  you  gone  there, 
he  had  orders  to  lock  you  up  and  bring  your  child  to  me. 
You  are  my  property,  and  can  not  go  from  me  till  I  permit 
you.  You  are  not  desirable  property,  to  be  sure,  but  a  man 
often  keeps  a  vicious  horse  without  being  able  to  give  a 
reason,  perhaps  with  a  hope  of  some  day  being  able  to 
tame  him." 

Julia  said  nothing,  but  stood  with  a  look  on  her  face  as 
if  she  did  not  care  what  became  of  her.  He  went  close 
to  her  with  a  threatening  manner  and  his  face  wore  the 
expression  of  a  demon.  He  put  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
but  she  shrunk  away  from  him  as  if  from  a  loathsome 
reptile.  "  What  were  you  about  to  do  1  What  did  you  ex- 
pect to  do  }  "  he  said. 

"To  escape  from  you  forever,"  she  replied,  "  and  relieve 
myself  from  a  thralldom  worse  than  death.  You  have 
wrecked  my  life  and  parted  me  from  the  man  I  loved,  and 
I  hate  you." 

Merton  laughed  in  a  sardonic  manner,  and  taking  up  a 
chair,  dashed  it  to  pieces  on  the  floor.  "  I  can  crush  you 
just  like  that,"  he  said,  *'  and  now  mind  what  I  tell  you.  The 
next  time  you  try  this  game  I  will  put  you  in  a  mad-house 
and  part  you  from  your  child.  You  are  not  in  a  condition 
to  have  charge  of  him." 

She  staggered  as  if  she  had  received  a  blow  from  a  dag- 
ger, but  recovered  herself  in  a  moment,  seized  her  child  by 
the  hand,  and  rushing  up-stairs  to  her  room,  locked  the  door, 
and  fell  exhausted  upon  the  sofa,  where  mother  and  child 
wept  together.  This  was  the  only  time  Julia  attempted  to 
escape.  She  saw  it  was  useless  to  contend  against  a  man 
with  a  will  of  iron  and  a  heart  of  stone,  and  so  determined 
to  bear  with  patience  the  ills  from  which  she  could  not  es- 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


99 


cape  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  having  her  child  taken  from 
her,  which  she  felt  would  be  the  .  case  if  the  fiend  who 
claimed  her  as  his  property  could  find  an  excuse  for  doing 
so.  He  could  not  obtain  her  love,  of  that  he  was  aware, 
and  like  all  base  minds  he  would  take  satisfaction  in  per- 
secuting her. 

Time  went  on.  Julia's  life  was  a  purgatory,  and  but  for 
her  child  she  would  have  laid  down  and  died,  thanking  God 
for  her  release,  but  she  felt  she  had  duties  to  perform  to 
her  son  and  that  she  must  live  for  him.  She  had  been  well 
educated;  and  she  transmitted  her  knowledge  to  Arthur,  so 
that  he  was  better  taught  than  boys  of  his  age  generally. 
She  taught  him  music,  and  he  soon  became  a  fair  performer 
on  the  piano.  She  looked  after  his  physical  training  and 
frequently  went  with  him  to  the  woods  where  he  would  climb 
to  the  tops  of  the  highest  trees,  or  clamber  out  on  the  lowest 
branches  and  frighten  his  mother  by  dropping  to  the  ground. 
He  would  start  off  like  a  deer  and  make  the  circuit  of  the 
woods  in  wonderful  time,  and  come  in  almost  as  fresh  as 
when  he  started,  his  flashing  eyes  and  ruddy  cheeks  giving 
evidence  of  his  enjoyment  of  the  sport.  He  was  a  remark- 
ably strong  boy,  and  bade  fair  to  be  proficient  in  athletic 
exercises. 

But  while  Arthur  was  increasing  in  strength  and  knowl- 
edge, his  mother  w^as  fading.  The  boy  could  see  it  plainly, 
and  his  tearful  eyes  rested  constantly  upon  her.  At  last  he 
persuaded  his  mother  to  consult  the  family  physician,  who 
gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  Julia  would  not  live  unless  she  had 
a  change  of  air,  though  he  could  find  no  physical  ailment  in 
her.  When  the  doctor  mentioned  the  matter  to  Mr.  Mer- 
ton,  the  latter  offered  no  opposition  to  the  plan  of  a  change 
for  Mrs.  Merton.  Indeed  he  had  been  for  some  time  think- 
ing seriously  of  purchasing  an  estate  at  some  distance  from 
the  mills.  He  had  amassed  a  large  fortune  by  grinding  the 
poor,  and  his  position  in  the  county  was  becoming  unpleas- 
ant.    Since  the  rector's  death  the  few  neighboring  gentle- 


lOO  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

men  who  had  noticed  him  had  cut  his  acquaintance.  It 
was  reported  that  he  had  ill-treated  his  wife  and  driven 
her  sisters  out  of  the  house,  and  there  was  other  gossip  such 
as  is  generally  spread  by  servants  ;  in  fact,  people  in  the 
parish  seemed  to  think  Mr.  Merton  a  very  evil  person. 

On  one  occasion  he  refused  to  pay  a  butcher's  bill  on 
the  ground  that  it  was  exorbitant  and,  as  he  passed  the 
butcher's  shop  later  in  the  day,  that  double-fisted  fellow 
called  after  his  debtor  :  "  Ah,  there  you  go,  ye  blarsted 
aristocrat  !  May  the  devil  fly  away  with  ye  !  An  I  could 
get  my  ten  fingers  round  yer  throat,  I'd  pay  ye  not  only  fer 
refusin'  to  pay  my  bill,  but  fer  ill-treatin'  yer  wife."  Merton 
hurried  on  out  of  the  man's  sight,  fearing  every  minute  that 
he  would  feel  the  weight  of  his  brawny  arm. 

Another  day  he  passed  a  school-house  while  the  boys 
were  at  recess.  As  soon  as  they  saw  him  they  set  up  a  cry, 
**  Stop,  wolf,"  and  pelted  him  with  stones.  "  So  much,"  they 
cried,  "  for  an  ill-treater  of  women  !  "  From  time  to  time 
he  received  various  other  insults,  and  hence  determined  to 
fix  his  abode  elsewhere  and  have  an  agent  at  the  mills  to 
carry  on  the  work.  So  it  was  that  Mr.  Merton  purchased 
Woodlawn  and  took  up  his  abode  there  as  has  already  been 
related. 

Though  bound  by  natural  ties  to  her  birthplace,  Julia 
had  suffered  too  much  there  to  regret  leaving  Lyneham.  A 
hope,  indeed,  arose  in  her  heart  that  something  might  oc- 
cur to  better  her  condition  in  her  new  home,  and  she  hoped 
the  change  of  air  might  restore  her  to  health  and  enable  her 
to  watch  over  her  boy,  who  was  now  the  object  in  life  upon 
which  her  affection  centered.  We  will  leave  them  at  Wood- 
lawn  for  a  time,  where  they  were  left  by  Merton  unmolested 
and  to  themselves.  Every  morning  at  six  o'clock  the  man- 
ufacturer was  up  and  on  his  way  by  rail  to  Lyneham,  and 
did  not  return  until  ten  at  night  when  his  family  had  retired, 
so  that  he  was  seldom  seen,  except  on  Sundays. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  loi 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Over  twelve  years  had  elapsed  since  anything  had  been 
heard  of  Eustis  Ferris. 

He  had  written  constantly  from  Australia,  bat  his  letters 
were  all  intercepted  by  Merton.  Eustis  on  his  part  heard 
nothing  ;  his  loving  words  were  lost  to  her  who  would  have 
given  so  much  to  have  received  them.  At  one  time,  in  de- 
spair at  receiving  no  letters,  Eustis  determined  to  return  to 
England  and  brave  the  charge  of  forgery  which  hung  over 
him,  although  he  was  aware  it  was  so  adroitly  framed  that  it 
would  be  almost  impossible  to  clear  himself.  The  fact  that 
he  had  suddenly  left  the  country  and  remained  away  would 
be  additional  evidence  against  him. 

While  he  was  thus  debating,  he  received  a  newspaper 
with  a  notice  of  his  father's  death,  which  had  occurred  seven 
months  before  the  date  of  the  paper,  which  also  contained 
an  account  of  a  forgery  on  the  Bank  of  Commerce  in  Lon- 
don, by  a  young  man  of  respectable  family  near  Lyneham. 
It  was  supposed  that  the  forger,  whose  name  was  not  given, 
had  gone  to  America,  as  all  traces  of  him  had  been  lost. 

The  news  of  his  father's  death  was  a  sad  blew  to  Eustis, 
particularly  as  he  feared  it  had  been  occasioned  by  the 
threatened  exposure  of  his  son.  It  put  a  stop  to  the  inten- 
tion of  returning  to  England,  where,  without  his  father's  aid, 
he  would  be  powerless.  He  felt  sure  of  one  thing — some 
one  was  desirous  to  get  him  out  of  England,  for  what  pur- 
pose he  could  not  imagine.  He  could  not  doubt  that  the 
plot  emanated  from  Merton's  former  accountant,  whom  he 
had  had  the  misfortune  to  offend.  For  the  present,  Eustis 
determined  to  rem^ain  in  Australia  and  watch  the  progress  of 
events,  although  the  suspense  caused  by  not  hearing  frora 
Julia  almost  killed  him. 

The  work  he  was  engaged  in  was  laborious,  but  it  was 
unflinchingly  performed.     It  was  the  more  welcome,  as  it 


102  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

tended  to  distract  his  mind  from  thoughts  of  home.  He 
was  often  occupied  until  late  in  the  evening  at  the  office, 
and  would  go  thence  to  his  lodgings  on  Gray  Street,  where, 
after  a  frugal  meal,  he  would  sit  far  into  the  night  brooding 
over  his  troubles.  Eustis  had  taken  to  smoking  as  a  relief, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  the  soothing  effects  of  tobacco  there 
is  no  knowing  what  might  have  become  of  him,  for  this  nar- 
cotic, so  unpleasant  to  wives  and  lodging-house  keepers,  in 
moments  of  trouble  often  stays  a  man's  hand  who  would 
otherwise  make  haste  to  "  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil,"  and 
lifts  him  from  Tartarus  to  Elysium. 

Thus  Eustis  sat  night  after  night  smoking  in  his  room, 
and  morning  found  him  lying  on  his  bed  hardly  knowing 
how  he  got  there.  Every  succeeding  day  told  upon  his 
physical  condition  which  his  employers  regarded  with  much 
concern. 

Then  came  the  crowning  blow. 

A  year  and  a  half  after  Eustis's  arrival  in  Melbourne  a 
letter  reached  him  bearing  the  Lyneham  post-mark.  It  was 
some  time  before  he  could  command  himself  sufficiently  to 
open  it,  and  he  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket  and  continued 
his  work  in  a  very  nervous  manner  until  the  manager,  notic- 
ing his  appearance,  said  :  ''  Mr.  Ferris,  you  are  not  well ;  let 
me  advise  you  to  go  home." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Eustis.  "I  will  take  advantage  of 
your  offer."  So  saying,  he  departed  for  his  lodgings. 
There,  locking  his  room  door,  he  opened  the  envelope,  which 
contained  a  slip  from  a  newspaper,  and  read  :  ''  Married, 
April  30,  185 1,  at  St.  John's  Church,  Lyneham,  Mr.  John 
Merton  to  Miss  Julia  Lester."  That  was  all,  but  it  was  too 
much  for  Eustis  in  his  weak  condition,  and  he  fell  to  the 
floor  insensible. 

His  landlady  in  the  room  below  hearing  the  fall  ran  up- 
stairs to  see  what  was  the  matter,  and  finding  the  room  door 
locked  sent  for  help,  had  it  burst  open,  and  finding  her  lodger 
apparently  dying,  sent  for  the  nearest  physician. 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


103 


The  doctor  saw  the  envelope  on  the  floor  and  also  the 
newspaper  slip,  and  on  reading  the  marriage  notice  divined 
the  cause  of  Eustis's  sudden  illness.  As  soon  as  possible 
the  young  man  was  pat  to  bed,  where  for  three  weeks  he 
lay  hovering  between  life  and  death,  but  a  good  constitution 
and  good  treatment  carried  him  safely  through  the  crisis, 
and  he  finally  regained  consciousness,  but  oh,  how  changed 
from  the  handsome  young  fellow  who  had  left  the  bank  but 
three  weeks  before  !  He  seemed  a  total  wreck,  and  looked 
as  if  he  would  never  again  be  restored  to  health. 

After  coming  to  his  senses  and  being  informed  by  the 
physician  how  long  he  had  been  ill,  Eustis  remembered  the 
marriage  notice,  and  on  inquiring  what  had  become  of  it  the 
doctor  handed  it  to  him,  saying :  "I  think  I  understand  the 
case,  but  take  comfort  in  the  reflection  that  what  can  not  be 
cured  must  be  endured.  You  are  young,  just  beginning  life, 
and  this  may  be  a  blessing  in  disguise."  So  the  well-mean- 
ing physician  went  on  trying  to  cheer  up  his  patient,  but  with 
very  little  success,  for  to  all  his  attempts  at  consolation,  Eus- 
tis replied:  "  There  is  no  hope  of  happiness  for  me  on  earth  ; 
death  is  my  only  refuge." 

For  a  time  it  seemed  that  his  wish  would  be  realized.  He 
lingered  so  long  in  a  weak  condition  that  the  doctor  could 
see  no  change  from  day  to  day,  and  the  invalid  became  so 
emaciated  that  he  had  not  strength  to  move  himself  in  bed. 

Suddenly  there  came  upon  him  a  revelation,  and  he  saw 
the  whole  plot  that  had  been  laid  against  him.  John  Mer- 
ton  himself  was  the  author  of  the  scheme.  The  man  whom  he 
had  always  disliked  had  been  anxious  to  get  rid  of  him  that 
he  might  marry  Julia  Lester.  The  whole  thing  was  plain  as 
daylight  to  him  now,  but  how  his  heart  ached,  when  he 
thought  of  how  his  name  had  been  dishonored  and  how  Julia 
must  have  suffered  when  told  that  he  was  a  forger,  and  of 
the  anger  of  the  rector  at  his  presumption  in  wishing  to 
marry  his  innocent  daughter  ! 

These  reflections  were  maddening,  but  still  were  of  service 


I04 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


to  Eustis,  who  now  determined  to  get  well  if  he  could,  in  order 
to  inflict  condign  punishment  upon  the  wretch  who  had  com- 
mitted such  outrages. 

In  the  end  he  did  recover  his  health  sufficiently  to  re- 
sume his  position  at  the  bank,  but  he  was  the  mere  shadow 
of  his  former  self,  like  some  noble  edifice  swept  by  a  confla- 
gration, which,  though  marred  in  beauty,  could  yet  be  rebuilt 
and  restored  to  its  original  luster. 

Eustis  was  received  with  much  kindness  by  the  manager 
and  by  all  his  associates  in  the  bank,  where  he  was  a  general 
favorite,  but  there  was  an  entirely  new  expression  in  his  face, 
a  determination  as  if  he  had  set  himself  some  desperate  task. 
Sometimes  he  would  suddenly  stop  and  stare  intently,  as  if 
at  some  object  in  the  far  distance,  then,  recovering  himself 
with  a  great  effort,  go  on  with  his  work. 

Eustis  was  known  by  all  the  frequenters  of  the  bank  as 
one  of  the  most  trustworthy  of  men,  and  so  much  business 
did  he  bring  to  the  concern  that  the  manager  had  increased 
his  salary  and  given  him  general  charge  of  affairs. 

We  must  now  leave  him  and  return  to  the  Merton  family 
whom  we  have  seen  lately  settled  at  Woodlawn.  It  will  be 
curious  to  see  how  persons  scattered  over  the  world  will  all 
be  found  working  toward  a  common  center,  as  particles 
of  iron  are  attracted  to  the  magnet.  That  unseen  power 
may  be  fate,  or  it  may  be  Providence,  but  whatever  it  is, 
when  great  crimes  are  committed  a  Nemesis  follows  in  the 
train  of  the  criminals  to  deal  out  to  them  the  punishment 
they  deserve. 

The  innocent  may  suffer  for  a  time — we  can  not  account 
for  the  seeming  inconsistency — but  in  the  end  the  guilty  will 
be  punished. 

We  left  Julia  Merton  and  her  son  for  the  first  time  look- 
ing forward  to  some  enjoyment  in  their  new  home.  Al- 
though they  had  not  been  consulted  about  the  removal  from 
Wiltshire,  yet  the  change  was  greatly  to  their  satisfaction. 

Mr.  Merton  was  seldom  at  home,  except  on  a  Sunday,  and. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  105 

consequently,  his  family  were  able  to  enjoy  their  beautiful 
surroundings. 

Squire  Pentland  and  his  wife  had,  of  course,  learned  of 
the  new  arrivals  at  Woodlawn,  and  the  next  Sunday  after 
church  determined  to  call  on  their  way  home  and  pay  their 
respects  to  the  new  comers.  Hearing  that  there  was  a  boy 
of  his  own  age  in  the  Merton  family,  the  Pentlands  took  Ron- 
nald  with  them,  much  to  the  latter's  delight,  for  he  longed 
for  a  suitable  companion  of  his  own  age. 

The  Pentlands  found  Julia  and  her  son  sitting  in  the 
porch  and  looking  on  the  Medway,  as  much  like  two  lovers 
as  possible.  This  pleased  Mrs.  Pentland,  who  was  of  a  some- 
what romantic  disposition,  and  she  whispered  to  Ronald  : 
''  That  is  a  boy  of  whom  you  can  safely  make  a  friend — he 
loves  his  mother  as  a  son  ought  to  love  her." 

Julia  rose  to  receive  her  guests,  while  Arthur  devoted  his 
attention  to  Ronald,  who  was  in  many  respects  his  counter- 
part. The  Mertons  had  received  few  visitors  for  the  past 
eight  years,  and  it  miight  be  supposed  that  Julia  would 
feel  awkward  under  the  circumstances,  but  in  all  her  troubles 
she  had  preserved  the  grace  of  manner  which  seemed  part 
of  her  nature.  Although  she  had  been  but  a  few  days  at 
Woodlawn,  she  already  felt  the  benefit  of  the  change  from. 
Wiltshire  ;  her  eyes  were  bright  and  her  cheeks  had  a  tinge 
of  color  which  had  nothing  of  a  hectic  character,  for  it  was 
the  glow  of  returning  health.  She  looked,  indeed,  like  a  frag- 
ile flower,  but  never  in  all  her  life  had  she  appeared  more 
beautiful.  Although  she  was  turned  of  thirty  and  had  known 
much  sorrow  and  suffering,  she  did  not  appear  more  than 
twenty-five.  Mrs.  Pentland  looked  at  her  in  surprise  for  a 
moment,  then,  recollecting  herself,  gracefully  extended  her 
hand,  saying  :  '^  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Merton,  but  I  was  not  pre- 
pared to  see  one  so  young  and  beautiful.  Woodlawn  will 
now  have  charms  that  will  eclipse  every  place  in  the  neigh- 
borhood." 

Julia  blushed  deeply  at  the  compliment,  and  her  blushes 


I06  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

made  her  look  more  beautiful  still,  but  she  soon  recovered 
her  self-possession  and  invited  her  visitors  to  be  seated. 

Squire  Pentland  was  equally  gratified  with  Julia's  ap- 
pearance, while  Ronald  did  not  know  which  to  admire 
most — the  beautiful  mother  or  the  handsome  boy  who  was 
to  be  his  future  playmate.  The  youngsters  were  soon 
acquainted,  and  wandered  off  a  little  way  to  compare 
notes. 

''  Arthur,  my  dear,"  said  his  mother,  "  go  to  the  library 
and  inform  your  father  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pentland  have 
called  to  see  us,  and  ask  him  will  he  please  come  out  ? " 

The  silvery  tones  of  Julia's  voice  fell  like  music  on 
the  ears  of  her  visitors,  and  Mrs.  Pentland's  heart  went  out 
at  once  to  the  beautiful  creature  before  her.  "  What  a  differ- 
ence it  will  make  in  my  life,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  having 
this  young  and  lovely  woman  so  near  me  !  " 

Mr.  Merton,  for  a  wonder,  came  promptly  forward  to 
meet  the  callers,  but  it  was  a  shock  to  Mrs.  Pentland  when 
she  saw  him.  "Beauty  and  the  beast,"  she  said,  to  herself, 
and  the  squire  had  to  force  himself  to  be  gracious.  How- 
ever, the  visit  passed  off  well ;  the  boys  were  delighted 
with  each  other,  and  the  acquaintance  of  the  two  families 
seemed  to  promise  an  agreeable  addition  to  the  lives  of 
the  Pentlands  and  a  new  existence  to  Julia  and  her  son. 
As  to  Mr.  Merton,  he  made  no  remark  after  the  visitors  had 
departed,  but  returned  to  the  library,  and  early  next  morn- 
ing took  the  train  for  the  mills,  only  returning  at  nine 
o'clock  the  following  night. 

Merton  seemed  inclined  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  now  that 
he  had  changed  his  dwelling-place,  and  seemed  ambitious 
to  stand  well  with  the  gentry  of  the  neighborhood,  so  his 
family  were  allowed  more  freedom  than  formerly.  Merton  felt 
that  the  friendship  of  the  Pentlands  would  be  an  advantage. 
The  squire  looked  like  a  man  who  could  be  depended  upon 
and  Mrs.  Pentland  was  without  doubt  a  person  whose  sym- 
pathies were  enlisted  in  behalf  of  the  beautiful  and  delicate 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  107 

woman  who  needed  the  support  of  a  strong  nature  to  enable 
her  to  bear  up  under  the  ills  of  life. 

When  Mrs.  Pentland  left  Woodlawn  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band :  "  ^Irs.  Merton  is  the  most  lovely  creature  I  ever  saw, 
and  no  doubt  her  character  is  as  pure  as  she  is  lovely.  But 
there  is  a  tragic  history  in  her  life,  if  one  may  judge  from 
the  wistful  look  in  her  eyes  ;  how  she  seems  to  be  gazing 
into  the  distance  all  the  time  !  " 

"  Well,  Ellen,"  said  the  squire,  "  as  it  is  your  mission  on 
earth  to  make  others  happy,  I  am  satisfied  that  if  there  is 
anything  to  trouble  that  beautiful  woman  you  will  find  it 
out  and  offer  such  consolation  as  will  enable  her  to  bear  her 
burden  with  resignation.  She  has  much  to  live  for  in  her 
handsome  boy,  who  is  a  perfect  picture." 

''Yes,"  said  Ronald,  "  I  never  saw  anything  to  equal  Ar- 
thur Merton.  He  has  never  been  to  school,  but  has  been 
taught  altogether  by  his  mother.  He  is  far  ahead  of  me  in 
books,  can  read  French  very  well,  and  plays  the  piano.  I 
am  going  to-morrow  to  hear  him  play  and  see  some  sketches 
he  has  made  of  some  of  the  great  oaks.  But  I  can  beat  him 
shooting,  father  ;  he  has  never  fired  a  gun  in  his  life,  so  he 
tells  me." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  soon  beat  you  in  shooting,  Ronald," 
said  his  father,  "  for  if  I  am  not  mistaken  that  boy  possesses 
remarkable  powers,  and  may  turn  out  to  be  an  Admirable 
Crichton.  Take  him  to  your  heart  and  make  a  fast  friend 
of  him.  It  is  well  that  every  boy  should  form  at  least  one 
close  friendship,  for  his  success  in  life  may  depend  upon  that 
circumstance." 

A  month  passed  away,  and  the  inmates  of  Moorland  and 
Woodlawn  became  quite  intimate.  Mrs.  Pentland  went 
daily  to  see  her  invalid,  as  she  called  Julia,  frequently  taking 
her  to  drive  in  a  pony  chaise,  and  pointing  out  all  the 
beauties  of  the  surrounding  scenery.  It  was  a  new  expe- 
rience for  Julia  —  for  the  first  time  she  had  met  with  a 
sympathizing  friend.      Without  attempting  to  unravel  the 


I08  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

mystery  of  Julia's  life,  Mrs.  Pentland  determined  to  throw- 
around  her  new  friend  the  segis  of  her  protection,  and  soothe 
and,  if  possible,  heal  the  wounds  which  fate  had  inflicted. 

The  two  boys  had  become  inseparable  companions,  and 
Arthur  had,  under  Ronald's  tuition,  been  out  on  several  oc- 
casions shooting.  Arthur  proved  an  apt  scholar,  and  in  the 
course  of  two  weeks'  incessant  practice  was  able  to  shoot  a 
pheasant  on  the  wing  and  knock  over  a  hare  on  a  full  run, 
which  was  considered  good  sport  for  a  tyro,  better,  in  fact, 
than  Ronald  had  accomplished  in  his  first  essays  with  dog 
and  gun.  Squire  Pentland,  who  watched  operations,  told 
Ronald  that  he  must  make  up  his  mind  to  yield  his  laurels 
to  Arthur  who  would  in  a  month  eclipse  him  altogether. 
Ronald  did  not  like  the  idea  of  Arthur's  excelling  in  his 
favorite  sport,  but  did  not  the  less  esteem  his  new  friend  be- 
cause he  was  likely  to  get  the  better  of  him. 

While  the  two  families  thus  were  cementing  their  friend- 
ship, Mr.  Merton  seldom  appeared  upon  the  scene,  and 
never  interfered  with  the  pursuits  of  his  wife  and  son. 

He  had  his  reasons  for  not  doing  so — a  desire  to  ingratiate 
himself  with  the  neighboring  gentry,  whom  he  feared  would 
regard  him  as  2,  parvenu  who  had  made  his  money  in  trade. 

Mrs.  Pentland  remarked  to  her  husband  :  "  Mr.  Merton 
is  hideously  ugly,  but  he  can  not  help  that ;  he  doesn't  seem 
to  trouble  his  family  much  with  his  company.  He  is  so 
shambling  and  uncouth  that  I  presume  he  is  ashamed  of 
his  wife's  superiority.  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  con- 
versational powers,  but,  after  all,  he  may  be  a  kind-hearted 
person  in  spite  of  his  wolfish  countenance." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  squire,  ''  you  are  full  of  noble  senti- 
ments and  are  ahvays  ready  to  cover  up  another  person's  de- 
fects, but  you  will  be  wrong  if  you  take  Mr.  Merton  for  a 
simpleton,  for  he  is  the  shrewdest  person  in  the  parish.  His 
wife  is  lovely  and  his  son  is  a  noble  boy  ;  for  their  sakes  we 
must  tolerate  him.  We  shall  see  but  little  of  Merton,  I  imag- 
ine, since  he  is  one  of  those  grasping  men  whose  money  is 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


109 


their  god.     He  was  not  born  a  gentleman,   that   is  certain, 
but  perhaps  his  associations  in  time  will  improve  him." 

At  length  the  time  came  for  Ronald  to  go  back  to  school. 
He  was  a  pupil  in  a  private  school  at  Chatham,  where  he 
was  preparing  for  the  University  of  Cambridge. 

It  was  but  about  two  hours'  journey  by  rail  from  Moor- 
land, and  Ronald  was  in  the  habit  of  passing  his  Sundays  at 
home,  an  excellent  arrangement  by  which  his  parents  could 
see  him  frequently  and  note  how  he  was  progressing  in  his 
studies. 

It  is  not  well  that  boys  should  be  deprived  of  home  in- 
fluences where  it  can  be  avoided,  yet  the  attractions  which 
are  found  at  the  great  schools  of  England  often  neutralize 
the  teachings  of  a  mother,  unless  in  exceptional  cases  where 
the  seed  has  been  sown  in  such  congenial  soil  that  it  can 
bid  defiance  to  hurtful  influences. 

Arthur  had  never  been  away  from  his  mother  a  night  in 
his  life,  but  now  that  he  saw  his  cherished  playfellow  de- 
parting, the  thought  occurred  to  him,  "  Why  should  not  I  go 
with  him?  "  His  mother  could  teach  him  no  more,  and  of 
course  could  not  prepare  him  for  the  university,  where  it 
was  intended  he  should  go.  Therefore  he  proposed  to  his 
mother  that  he  should  accompany  Ronald  Pentland  to  the 
school  in  Chatham. 

Julia  was  quite  overcome  when  her  son  opened  the  sub- 
ject, for  she  had  not  dreamed  of  parting  with  him  so  soon. 
He  was  so  necessary  to  her  existence  that  she  felt  she  could 
not  live  without  him,  in  fact  regarded  him  as  her  protector, 
for  should  her  husband  take  it  into  his  head  to  injure  her 
the  presence  of  her  son  would  be  a  check  upon  him.  Mer- 
ton,  however,  although  he  saw  and  felt  his  wife's  dislike  and 
had  given  up  all  hopes  of  overcoming  it,  accepted  the  state  of 
affairs  as  inevitable,  and  solaced  himself  for  his  disappoint- 
ment by  increased  devotion  to  money-making. 

Arthur's  mother  shed  many  bitter  tears  as  they  talked 
over  the  matter  of  his  going  to  school,  but  at  length,  seeing 


no  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

the  futility  of  further  opposition,  she  consented  to  his  accom- 
panying his  friend. 

"  But,  my  darling,"  she  exclaimed  "  what  shall  I  do  with- 
out you  ? " 

"  Mother,  dear,"  replied  Arthur,  "  were  you  situated  dif- 
ferently I  would  not  wish  to  leave  you,  and  would  rather  do 
without  an  education  in  order  to  be  near  you,  but  in  Mrs. 
Pentland  you  have  a  good  friend  w^ho  will  watch  over  you 
as  if  you  were  a  sister.  Then  there  is  the  railway  which 
will  bring  me  to  you  in  two  hours,  and  I  promise  you  that 
in  three  months  I  will  be  at  the  head  of  my  classes." 

She  kissed  him  finally,  and  said  :  "  Now  that  we  have  ar- 
ranged the  matter,  we  must  ask  Mr.  Merton's  consent.  I 
don't  know  what  he  will  say  to  it." 

"  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  any  difficulty  about  that," 
said  Arthur,  ''  for  I  don't  think  my  father  takes  much  inter- 
est in  me  or  cares  whether  I  go  or  stay.  Perhaps  if  I  get  to 
the  head  of  my  classes  he  may  begin  to  think  there  is  some- 
thing in  me." 

When  Mr.  Merton  met  his  family  at  breakfast  on  Sun- 
day, Julia  timidly  opened  the  subject  and  asked  his  consent 
that  Arthur  should  go  to  school  at  Chatham.  He  was  as- 
tonished that  his  wife  should  ask  a  favor,  and  for  once  in 
his  life  said,  quietly :  *'  Yes,  if  it  suits  you  to  have  Arthur  go. 
I  suppose  it  is  about  time  the  boy  went  to  school,  unless  you 
want  him  to  become  a  mollycoddle." 

Julia  flushed  at  the  idea  of  such  a  term  being  applied  to 
her  darling,  but  was  well  pleased  to  have  the  matter  settled. 
The  reflection  that  her  son  would  be  with  her  two  days  in 
every  week  quite  reconciled  her  to  the  change,,  especially  as 
the  idea  of  attending  a  good  school  seemed  to  make  Arthur 
so  happy.  He  was  sorry  to  leave  his  mother,  but  boys  are 
boys  the  world  over. 

There  comes  a  time  when  the  young  birds  will  crawl  to 
the  edge  of  the  nest  and,  looking  out  upon  the  great  world, 
see  so  many  beautiful   objects  that  they  naturally  want  to 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  III 

spread  their  wings  and  fly.  Their  first  essay  may  prove  a 
failure  and  life  seem  less  pleasant  than  they  expected,  and 
but  for  the  watchful  care  of  the  mother  bird  they  would 
most  likely  come  to  grief  when  barely  entered  on  the  state 
of  active  existence. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Arthur  Merton  was  not  one  of  those  fledgings  who 
would  attempt  to  fly  before  his  wings  were  grown.  He  had 
been  content  to  stay  in  the  nest  under  the  care  of  a  fond 
mother  and  to  drink  in  precepts  of  virtue  and  wisdom  from 
her  practical  mind. 

She  had  been  his  only  teacher,  and  now  that  he  com- 
pared notes  daily  with  his  new  friend  Ronald,  Arthur  found 
himself  better  instructed  in  all  the  elementary  studies.  The 
mother's  heart  had  been  deeply  interested  in  the  work  of 
educating  her  son,  and  the  affection  he  felt  for  her  had  in- 
spired him  in  his  tasks  so  that  she  was  rewarded  by  a  zeal 
that  could  only  emanate  from  a  heart  as  full  of  love  as  her 
own. 

The  day  came  when  the  boys  vrere  to  depart  for  their 
school,  and  Squire  Pentland  took  charge  of  Arthur,  to  install 
him  in  his  new  field  of  action. 

The  parting  between  Julia  and  her  son  was  most  affect- 
ing in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  going  so  short  a  distance 
and  would  see  her  so  frequently. 

That  evening  the  squire  returned  and  reported  that  he 
had  left  the  two  boys  happy  at  school.  Julia's  tears  flowed 
silently,  and  she  could  not  help  a  slight  feeHng  of  jealousy 
that  Arthur  could  be  contented  when  absent  from  her.  Mrs. 
Pentland,  who  had  accompanied  her  husband  to  Woodlawn, 
to  console  Julia,  said  :  "  Do  not  shed  tears  over  what  is 
going  to  do  your  son  so  much  good.  You  will  live  to  see 
him  in  Parliament  yet,  or  I  am  mistaken  in  the  boy." 


J 12  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

"Yes,"  sobbed  Julia.  "I  appreciate  what  you  say,  but 
I  have  shed  so  many  tears  in  my  Hfe  that  they  flow  too  easily." 

"Poor  child,"  exclaimed  the  kind-hearted  matron, 
"  would  that  I  could  share  your  sorrows.  You  must  try  and 
lean  on  me,  for  I  am  strong  and  have  hardly  had  a  grief  in 
my  life,  and  I  have  a  joy  in  my  son  which  seems  to  me 
unequaled  by  anything  on  earth." 

Mrs.  Pentland  came  daily  to  Woodlawn  to  cheer  Julia 
and  look  after  her,  and  although  without  Arthur  the  days 
passed  slowly,  yet  they  were  made  endurable  until  his  return 
from  school  the  ensuing  Friday  night  to  remain  until  the 
Monday  following.  Then  Julia's  face  was  wreathed  in 
smiles  and  everything  was  done  to  make  Arthur's  short  stay 
at  home  agreeable.  Even  his  father  deigned  to  inquire  how 
he  liked  his  school,  and  reminded  him  that  the  expense  was 
great,  and  that  he  must  waste  no  precious  time  in  idleness. 

Thus  four  years  passed  away,  the  two  boys  growing  in 
manly  beauty  and  outstripping  all  their  companions  both  in 
studies  and  outdoor  sports,  but  the  leader  on  all  occasions 
was  Arthur  Merton  who  bade  fair  to  be  what  Mr.  Pentland 
had  imagined — a  veritable  Crichton.  He  could  beat  every 
boy  in  school  at  running  and  jumping,  was  first  at  cricket 
and  football,  pulled  the  stroke  oar  in  the  club  boat,  and  was 
voted  the  handsomest  and  best  formed  boy  at  the  school. 

Ronald  Pentland  stood  second  to  his  friend  in  all  things, 
so  that  the  two  carried  off  the  chief  honors.  It  sometimes 
caused  Ronald  a  pang  of  jealousy  to  see  his  friend  excel 
him  in  so  many  particulars,  but  he  soon  dismissed  such  an 
unworthy  feeling  and  rejoiced  over  Arthur's  successes  as  if 
they  had  been  his  own. 

Arthur  and  Ronald  were  undoubtedly  two  very  hand- 
some youths,  although  their  beauty  was  of  an  entirely  differ- 
ent character. 

Arthur  was  the  image  of  his  mother,  with  dark-brown 
hair,  and  features  perfect  as  an  antique  sculpture.  His 
teeth  were  like  pearls  and  his  lips  were  wreathed  with  smiles. 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


113 


His  chin  had  a  dimple  wherein  cupids  might  have  lain  in 
ambush  to  trip  unwary  maidens.  It  was  a  mixture  of  Ital- 
ian blood  with  English  which  made  Arthur's  manly  beauty 
so  perfect. 

Ronald  Pentland,  on  the  other  hand,  was  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  type,  with  sunny  hair,  blue  eyes,  a  fair  complexion, 
and  a  happy  expression  of  countenance.  It  would  seem 
difficult  to  say  which  of  these  youths  was  the  handsomer, 
yet  his  schoolfellows  gave  the  palm  to  Arthur. 

On  one  occasion  when  the  two  boys  were  home  for  the 
holidays,  and  were  sauntering  over  the  Moorland  estate, 
they  encountered  at  the  edge  of  a  wood  a  boy  of  about  six- 
teen sitting  on  the  grass  and  busily  engaged  with  a  pocket- 
knife  in  fashioning  what  seemed  to  be  traps.  The  boy  was 
strong  and  stout  with  a  forbidding  expression  of  countenance, 
and  he  did  not  look  up  as  the  two  friends  went  past  him. 
Arthur  and  Ronald  scrutinized  the  boy  closely,  and  the  lat- 
ter whispered  :  "  That  fellow  is  poaching  ;  if  he  doesn't  look 
out  the  gamekeeper  will  get  hold  of  him." 

"  I  'opes  yer'll  know  me  next  time  yer  claps  yer  peepers 
on  me,"  called  out  the  fellow.  ''  If  yer  goes  about  spyin'  and 
speerin'  into  things  as  don't  concern  ye  yer  mothers'  monk- 
ies  will  get  ther  noses  smashed." 

The  boys  stopped,  and  Ronald  said  :  "  Pray,  who  are  you 
who  undertake  to  be  impertinent  to  people  on  their  own 
grounds  ? "  The  fellow  laughed  :  "  I'll  be  blessed,"  he  said, 
"  if  the  thing  can't  talk.  I'm  Bill  Briggs,  if  yer  want  ter 
know,  and  I  can  thrash  the  pair  of  you."  He  sprang  up, 
shut  his  knife,  threw  his  hat  on  the  ground,  and  called  out, 
*' Here's  a  chance  for  ye  two  snobs,  one  or  both  of  ye." 

Ronald  in  a  towering  rage  advanced  toward  the  clodpole 
as  if  to  chastise  him,  when  Arthur  put  his  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  "  Not  so  fast  Ronald,  "  he  said,  "  this  won't  do— 
you  have  lost  your  coolness,  and  in  your  present  excitement 
that  fellow  may  be  too  much  iox  you.  It  won't  do  for  him 
to  boast  that  he  has  whipped  one  of  the  Chatham  Academy 
8 


114  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

boys.     Let  me  take  hold  of  him,  and  I  will  give  him  a  thrash- 
ing he  will  remember." 

Ronald  was  disposed  to  demur  to  this,  but  knowing  that 
Arthur  was  superior  to  him  as  a  boxer,  he  yielded,  saying, 
"  If  he  thrashes  you,  I  shall  have  to  go  at  him  after  all." 

*'  No,"  said  Arthur,  "  if  he  thrashes  me,  he  must  remain 
master  of  the  field,  for,  it  would  be  cowardly  for  both  of  us 
to  attack  him." 

'*  What  are  yer  talking  about,"  said  Bill  Briggs,  swinging 
his  arms  around  as  if  to  limber  the  muscles.  "  Ef  yer  afraid, 
I'll  come  an'  knock  a  little  pluck  into  yer,  but  perhaps  yer 
afraid  of  spoilin'  yer  Sunday  clothes." 

*'  Perhaps  I  am,"  said  Arthur,  "  but  when  I  have  thrashed 
you  soundly  you  will  think  I  am  not  afraid  of  a  clodpole." 

The  last  remark  made  Bill  Briggs  furious,  he  shook  his 
fist  and  threw  a  handful  of  dirt  at  his  antagonists. 

Ronald  had  reluctantly  agreed  to  keep  out  of  the  fight, 
especially  when  his  friend  remarked  :  "  Remember,  you  are 
going  to  see  Elsie  Vernon  this  evening,  and  it  wouldn't  do  to 
go  with  a  pair  of  black  eyes." 

Arthur  threw  off  his  jacket  and  advanced  toward  Bill 
Briggs.  "  Now,  Mr.  Clodpole,"  he  said  "I  will  teach  you  a 
lesson  that  you  will  remember." 

"  Good  for  ye,  ye  city-bred  turkey-cock.  Yer  better  than 
t'other  feller,  anyhow.  I'll  lather  ye  well  for  interferin' 
with  yer  betters." 

"  Now,  look  here,  clodpole,"  said  Arthur,  "  that  kind  of 
talk  will  do  you  no  good.  You  are  ugly  enough  now  without 
distorting  your  face  with  passion  ;  keep  cool  and  your  pun- 
ishment will  be  easier  for  you." 

By  this  time  Bill  Briggs  was  at  white  heat,  and  showered 
such  a  torrent  of  abuse  upon  Arthur  that  he  could  not  help 
laughing. 

"  Look  a-here,"  said  the  amiable  Bill,  "  I'll  paint  that 
'ere  baby  face  of  youm  so  that  yer  dog  won't  know  yer  an* 
yer  won't  see  daylight  outer  them  eyes  for  a  month.      If 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


115 


I  don't  strap  you  afore  I'm  done,  I'll  give  you  my  'at  an' 
boots." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Arthur,  laughing.  "  If  you  thrash  me  you 
shall  have  my  cap  and  boots  ;  if  I  thrash  you  I  will  take 
yours  and  hang  them  up  in  our  stable  as  a  trophy." 

"  Come  on,  then,"  shouted  Bill,  making  a  sudden  rush  at 
Arthur,  who,  perfectly  collected,  stepped  aside  and  in  ring 
parlance  ''  landed  a  crusher  "  under  Bill's  left  ear,  when  that 
doughty  champion  went  to  grass,  plowing  up  the  ground 
with  his  nose. 

For  a  moment  Bill  was  dazed,  and,  as  he  subsequently 
remarked,  "  felt  as  if  ahorse  had  kicked  him  with  four  shoes 
on  one  foot,"  but  he  soon  recovered  himself  and  squared 
off  before  Arthur,  striking  right  and  left.  This  was  countered 
by  his  antagonist  with  a  stinging  blow  upon  the  nose,  and 
Bill  went  down  again. 

He  soon  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  his  face  covered 
with  blood,  and  cried  out  :  "  Yer  a  better  man  than  I  tuk 
yer  ter  be,  but  yer  only  a  mushroom  after  all.  I'll  give  yer 
somethin'  yer  don't  dream  of  yet." 

"  Get  up,  then,"  said  Arthur,  "  and  take  some  mushroom 
sauce.     I've  only  been  playing  with  you  so  far." 

''  Oh,"  said  Bill,  rising  and  w^iping  the  blood  from  his 
nose,  "yer  one  of  them  skientifikers  who  are  too  big  cowards 
to  fight  with  the  means  natur  gives  us,  but  I'll  fix  you." 
So  saying,  he  lowered  his  head  and  made  a  rush  at  Arthur, 
who  administered  a  blow  under  the  jaw,  sending  Bill  again 
to  grass. 

That  was  the  last  round,  for  Bill  Briggs  lay  stretched 
upon  the  grass  unconscious.  *'  Here,  Ronald,"  said  the  victor, 
**  take  his  hat  and  get  some  water  at  the  brook.  The  hat 
belongs  to  me  now,  and  I  can  do  as  I  please  with  it."  Ron- 
ald soon  returned  with  the  water,  and  the  boys  went  to 
work  to  restore  the  vanquished  hero  to  consciousness. 

This  was  no  difficult  matter,  and  Bill  was  soon  able  to 
look  about  him.     "  Well,  you  feller,  I  didn't  lick  yer  as  soon 


Il6  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

as  I  thought  I  would,  but  never   mind,  I'll  get  even  with 
yer  afore  long." 

*'  Now,  Bill  Briggs,"  said  Arthur,  "for  that  speech  I  in- 
tend to  take  your  hat  and  boots  according  to  agreement. 
I  had  hoped  to  find  you  a  true  Briton  who  could  take  a 
thrashing  like  a  man,  but  I  find  you  are  nothing  of  the  sort. 
I  hope  the  lesson  you  have  learned  to  day  will  do  you 
some  good,  and  remember  that  a  gentleman  has  the  same 
advantage  over  a  clodpole  that  a  gamecock  has  over  a  dung- 
hill fowl." 

"■  Give  me  my  'at  an'  boots,  and  yer  may  go  ter  ther  devil 
with  yer  hifalutin  talk,"  said  Bill. 

Arthur,  seeing  that  he  had  a  surly  fellow  to  deal  with  who 
was  void  of  all  sentiment,  flung  him  the  hat,  and  say- 
ing, "  Take  the  forfeit,  and  much  good  may  it  do  you," 
walked  off. 

Bill  Briggs  looked  after  the  boys  with  evil  eyes.  "  It 
may  be  a  hundred  years,"  he  said,  "  the  earth  may  be  washed 
away,  all  the  hale  in  the  world  drunk  up,  but  I'll  be  even 
with  yer  yet  an'  will  sarve  yer  out  in  a  fashion  yer'll  remem- 
ber till  doomsday."  So  saying,  Bill  Briggs  disappeared  in 
the  depths  of  the  wood. 

Ronald  was  the  first  to  speak  after  he  and  Arthur  had 
left  the  field  of  battle.  "  I  wish  you  had  let  me  thrash  that 
fellow.  You  seemed  to  have  an  easy  job  of  it,  and  I  shall 
probably  have  to  do  it  any  way  some  of  these  days,  before 
he  will  respect  me." 

"  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,"  replied  Ar- 
thur. "  Bill  Briggs  will  remember  his  lesson.  Look  at  my 
knuckles,  all  skinned  on  that  fellow's  tough  hide.  Elsie  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  me  this  evening  if  she  notices  my 
hand,  especially  if  she  hears  I  have  been  fighting,  for  she  is 
a  dainty  little  thing." 

This  idea  consoled  Ronald,  and  the  boys  walked  home 
laughing  at  the  astonishment  exibited  by  Bill  Briggs  at  get- 
ting so  complete  and  speedy  a  drubbing. 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  ny 

The  boys  agreed  not  to  mention  the  affair  to  any  one, 
and  it  was  therefore  not  likely  to  be  talked  about,  for  Bill 
Briggs  would  hardly  mention  his  own  defeat  for  fear  of  be- 
ing laughed  at. 


CHAPTER   X. 

We  have  mentioned  Elsie  Vernon  in  the  last  chapter. 
This  young  lady  was  the  only  daughter  of  the  Reverend  Al- 
gernon Vernon,  rector  of  the  parish,  and  younger  son  of 
Lord  Vernon  of  Castle  Redmond,  who  had  received  a  living 
in  Kent,  the  income  of  which  enabled  him  to  maintain  a 
creditable  position  among  the  neighboring  gentry. 

The  parish  church  at  Elliston  was  a  fine  specimen  of 
early  English  architecture,  having  so  far  escaped  the  sacri- 
legious hands  of  the  restorer,  while  the  rectory  was  a  com- 
fortable old  brick  mansion  built  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Anne  of  blessed  memory. 

Four  years  after  his  induction  to  the  living  of  Elliston 
Mr.  Vernon's  wife  died  and  left  him  the  daughter  whom  we 
have  mentioned. 

Ronald  Pentland  had  known  Elsie  Vernon  from  her  in- 
fancy. He  was  four  years  her  senior,  and  from  the  time  the 
little  girl  could  toddle  about  he  had  been  her  playmate.  She 
was  an  exacting  little  creature,  and  pretty  as  she  was  exact- 
ing. From  the  age  of  four  up  to  that  of  twelve,  at  which 
period  Ronald  went  to  the  school  in  Chatham,  Elsie  ruled 
him  with  a  rod  of  iron,  holding  him  in  the  fetters  of  love, 
for  Ronald  had  told  his  mother  that  he  intended  to  marry 
Elsie  when  he  should  be  a  man,  and  would  then  provide  her 
with  a  splendid  coach  drawn  by  four  long-tailed,  cream-col- 
ored horses. 

There  was  no  end  to  the  demands  made  upon  Ronald's 
time  by  his  pretty  little  friend,  who  seemed  always  to  have 
something  for  him  to  do.  He  climbed  trees  to  shake  down 
nuts  for  her,  made  ships  that  would  sail  upon  the  mimic 


Il8  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

lake  in  the  grounds  of  the  rectory,  or  drew  her  in  a  little 
wagon  all  over  the  neighborhood.  He  cut  out  paper  dolls 
for  her,  and  helped  her  keep  house  in  a  large  box  that  he 
had  converted  into  a  cottage,  and  baited  her  hook  when  she 
took  a  fancy  to  fish  in  the  pond  for  minnows.  If  from  any 
circumstance  Ronald  failed  to  make  his  appearance  at  the 
usual  hour  Elsie  would  go  after  him,  accompanied  by  her 
nurse,  and  bring  him  away  a  prisoner. 

Ronald,  however,  was  a  very  willing  prisoner  who  seldom 
failed  to  do  homage  to  his  princess. 

Here,  then,  were  two  very  young  people  with  whom  the 
course  of  true  love  was  running  smoothly  enough,  and  they 
might  have  grown  up,  married,  and  passed  off  the  stage, 
leaving  a  long  line  of  Pentlands  behind  them,  but  just  in 
the  heyday  of  their  happiness  Arthur  Merton  came  to  live 
at  Woodlawn. 

After  the  boys  had  been  acquainted  for  a  few  days,  Ron- 
ald, feeling  that  he  had  been  recreant  to  his  princess,  pro- 
posed to  Arthur  to  go  and  see  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
parish.  Elsie  was  delighted  with  the  new-comer  and  said, 
in  her  lisping  way  :  "  Now  I  can  hab  two  horses  to  my 
coach.  Arthur  can  pay  fox  and  Roney'll  pay  dog  an'  I'll  be 
Pincess  an*  gib  you  pize." 

Arthur  was  much  pleased  with  the  little  girl,  and  said 
she  was  the  joUiest  fun  he  had  ever  met  with.  When  he 
told  his  mother  that,  he  had  lost  his  heart  to  Elsie  Ver- 
non, Julia  smiled.  "  The  idea  of  your  falling  in  love  with 
anything  makes  my  heart  flutter.  I  could  not  spare  an  atom 
of  your  affection,  so  that  I  fear  while  I  live  you  will  have  to 
sacrifice  yourself  to  me." 

"You  dear,  foolish  mother,"  said  Arthur,  kissing  her 
fondly,  "  I  do  believe  if  I  ever  really  fell  in  love  with  any- 
body it  would  make  you  unhappy;  but  you  need  not  fear 
anything  from  Elsie,  who  is  quite  wrapped  up  in  Ronald, 
and  thinks  she  owns  him."  Julia  smiled  at  her  son's  re- 
marks, but  said,  in  a  serious  tone : 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


119 


"  Remember,  Arthur,  never  interfere  with  true  love,  and 
be  careful  not  to  step  between  Ronald  and  Elsie.  A  woman 
may  have  two  strings  to  her  bow,  but  she  can  never  really 
love  but  one  person." 

Arthur  laughed,  but  in  later  years  remembered  her  words. 

"Now,  mother,"  he  said,  "after  that  wise  remark  of 
yours  I  am  going  off  shooting  with  Ronald,"  and  he  ran 
away,  laughing. 

During  the  four  years  the  boys  were  at  school  in  Chat- 
ham they  never  failed  in  their  visits  home  to  run  over  to  the 
parsonage  to  see  Elsie,  who  grew  daily  in  grace  and  beauty, 
and  was  the  pet  of  the  parish.  Elsie  always  welcomed  their 
coming,  and  when  she  got  any  new  playthings  always  brought 
them  out  for  her  friends'  inspection. 

She  had  but  one  doll  in  female  dress,  and  that  one  was 
intended  to  represent  herself.  She  had  two  miniature  boys 
dressed  alike,  one  to  represent  Ronald,  the  other  Arthur. 

The  latter  was  always  placed  on  her  right  and  Ronald 
on  the  left.  Ronald  sometimes  tried  to  change  this  arrange- 
ment, but  Elsie  would  not  consent,  for  reasons  she  did  not 
choose  to  tell. 

At  the  time  the  boys  left  school  prepared  to  enter  the 
university  they  were  just  verging  on  seventeen,  while  Elsie 
was  thirteen,  and  pretty  as  a  picture. 

The  young  people  had  spent  two  weeks  together  after 
the  return  of  the  boys  from  school,  and  they  were  now  to 
part  for  a  longer  term  than  usual,  for  they  could  only  re- 
turn from  Cambridge  for  any  length  of  time  during  the 
"long  vacation."  Between  the  sports  on  the  river  and 
attendance  on  Elsie,  the  days  flew  so  rapidly  that  it  was 
hard  to  tell  where  they  had  gone,  but  when  the  time  came 
for  them  to  part  Elsie  was  as  much  distressed  as  the  boys. 
"Now,  mind,"  she  said,  "and  write  me  a  joint  letter  every 
week,  and  I  will  answer  promptly — papa  says  I  may  ;  and 
don't  forget  to  tell  me  everything.  Don't  find  any  other 
little  Elsie  to  pet,  and  I  promise  you  if  Prince  Golden  Hair 


I20  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

makes  his  appearance  while  you  are  away  I  won't  look  at 
him."  Elsie  could  chatter  as  fast  as  a  parrot  and  in  the 
prettiest  way  in  the  world,  and  so  the  young  people  parted 
not  to  meet  again  for  a  long  time  ;  for  so  it  seemed  to  them, 
and  their  greatest  pleasure  was  henceforth  to  be  the  antici- 
pation of  meeting  at  the  holidays. 

Arthur  stood  the  ordeal  much  better  than  Ronald.  His 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  however,  as  he  bade  Elsie  good-by. 

"Don't  forget  us,  my  little  friend,"  he  said.  "Remem- 
ber, we  are  your  brothers,  and  you  are  our  dear  little  sister, 
and  no  Princess  Diamond  Eyes  shall  ever  come  between 
us." 

Elsie  gave  a  convulsive  sob,  and  then  rushed  up-stairs 
to  her  room,  where  she  watched  the  boys  from  her  window 
as  long  as  she  could  see  them,  waving  her  handkerchief  un- 
til they  passed  from  sight. 

Then  the  boys  went  to  say  good-by  to  their  mothers. 
Mrs.  Pentland  bore  the  parting  very  well.  She  had  packed 
Ronald's  boxes  with  an  outfit  such  as  few  boys  could  boast, 
not  forgetting  a  liberal  supply  of  plum-cake,  while  his  father 
contributed  some  notes  of  the  Bank  of  England,  that  would 
enable  Ronald  to  hold  his  own  among  the  students  at  Cam- 
bridge. 

The  parting  between  Arthur  and  his  mother  was  painful 
in  the  extreme.  At  Chatham  her  son  had  been  only  a  short 
distance  away,  but  now  he  was  to  go  to  Cambridge,  fifty 
miles  farther  than  London,  and  the  distance  seemed  to  her 
immense.  Her  married  life  had  been  so  unhappy  that  Ar- 
thur's most  vivid  recollections  of  his  mother  represented  her 
in  tears.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  tragedy  that  had  wrecked 
his  mother's  life,  but  attributed  her  sorrow  to  the  coldness 
and  indifference  shown  by  his  father  toward  them  both. 

Although  Julia  felt  that  separation  from  her  son  for  so 
long  a  period  would  almost  kill  her,  yet  she  saw  what  a  dis- 
appointment it  would  be  for  Arthur  not  to  accompany  his 
friend  to  Cambridge,  to  say  nothing  of  the  mortification  he 


.    ARTHUR  MERTOX.  I2I 

would  experience  in  after-life  at  not  possessing  the  educa- 
tion to  which  his  talents  entitled  him. 

Mr.  Merton  troubled  himself  but  little  in  regard  to  Ar- 
thur's education,  but  left  the  matter  almost  entirely  to  his 
wife,  saying  he  had  no  time  for  such  matters,  and  that  he 
knew  nothing  about  bringing  up  children  ;  but  he  was 
anxious  that  his  son  should  make  as  good  an  appearance 
at  Cambridge  as  any  of  the  students,  and  he  was  especially 
anxious  that  Arthur  should  have  everything  better  and  more 
expensive  than  young  Pentland. 

This  was  Mr.  Merton's  idea  of  education,  and  while  Julia 
was  glad  to  think  that  Arthur  was  not  likely  to  be  stinted 
in  his  allowance,  she  was  yet  deeply  grieved  at  the  thought 
of  losing  his  society  so  completely,  while  Arthur  on  his  part 
felt  very  uneasy  at  the  idea  of  leaving  his  mother  in  her  del- 
icate condition  of  health. 

Julia  encouraged  her  son  to  bear  up  bravely  and  secure 
the  honors  of  the  university,  which  would  console  her  for 
many  deprivations.  "  When  this  university  business  is  over, 
Arthur,"  she  said,  "  you  will  belong  to  me  and  we  will  never 
part  again.  Where  you  go  there  vrill  I  go,  for  you  are  all  I 
have  to  live  for." 

Arthur  did  not  see  his  father  when  he  left  home,  for  the 
latter  was  as  usual  absent  attending  to  business.  Mr.  Mer- 
ton supplied  the  necessary  funds  and  thought  it  quite  suffi- 
cient. He  troubled  himself  very  little  about  his  son,  and 
the  boy  never  having  received  any  mark  of  affection  from 
his  father  could  not  be  supposed  to  feel  any.  Arthur  knew 
that  his  mother  had  received  a  terrible  shock  through  his 
father  at  some  time  since  her  marriage,  and  that  circum- 
stance satisfied  him  that  his  father  could  not  be  a  good  man. 

Squire  Pentland,  after  accompanying  the  boys  to  Cam- 
bridge and  seeing  them  installed  in  St.  John's  College,  bade 
them  good-by  and  started  homeward  by  the  evening  train. 

The  next  day  Arthur  sat  down  and  wrote  to  his  mother. 

"  Here  we  are,  dear  mother,  in  this  old  red  brick  town 


122  ARTHUR  MERTON.    . 

on  the  Cam.  The  place  is  dingy  enough,  but  the  college 
grounds  are  more  beautiful  than  anything  I  could  have  imag- 
ined. When  I  went  into  the  great  hall  of  St.  John's,  I  felt 
very,  very  small.  At  Chatham,  where  I  took  the  honors,  I 
was  somebody,  but  how  can  I  hope  to  compete  with  all  the 
grand  fellows  I  see  here  !  But  I  will  do  my  best.  Only  to 
think  of  the  great  men  who  have  been  educated  here !  But 
I  suppose  they  were  boys  once  like  Ronald  and  myself. 
Mother,  dear,  although  the  dining-hall  would  astonish  you,  I 
think  you  would  be  more  interested  in  the  kitchen,  where 
you  could  roast  an  ox  whole  before  the  fire. 

"There  is  nothing  particularly  attractive  about  the  town, 
but  I  shall  enjoy  my  home  the  more  when  I  see  it  again. 
Now,  darling  mother,  when  I  return  let  me  see  those  sweet 
eyes  beaming  brightly  and  the  roses  mantling  your  cheeks, 
and  I  shall  be  happy." 

When  Julia  read  this  letter  she  felt  sure  her  boy  would 
succeed  even  in  the  competition  of  so  many  clever  men  as 
there  were  at  Cambridge,  and  in  her  mind's  eye  beheld  him 
after  graduation  one  of  the  great  statesmen  of  England — a 
Fox,  a  Canning,  a  Palmerston,  or  a  Peel. 

The  same  mail  which  conveyed  a  letter  to  Julia,  took  one 
from  the  boys  to  Elsie  Vernon.  It  was  the  first  letter  she 
had  ever  received,  and  she  was  delighted  when  her  father 
placed  it  in  her  hands. 

"  Dear  little  sister  :  Here  we  are  as  happy  as  two 
finches.  This  isn't  the  parsonage  by  a  great  deal,  and  we 
see  nothing  here  to  remind  us  of  you,  but  we  think  of  you 
none  the  less.     We  are  both  of  us  in  fine  feather. 

*'  I  wish  you  could  see  our  rooms.  There's  nothing  finer 
in  St.  John's  College  ;  Arthur's  are  upholstered  in  blue,  and 
Ronald's  in  corn  color.  This  place  is  filled  with  a  lot  of 
fellows  in  black  gowns  and  mortar-board  caps  who  look  as 
wise  as  so  many  owls.  We  will  have  to  wear  this  classic 
uniform  after  a  while,  although  at  present  they  let  us  dress 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 23 

like  ordinary  mortals.  We  don't  believe  any  of  these  wise- 
looking  chaps  could  climb  a  tree  faster  than  we,  or  beat  us 
running,  or  pulling  a  stroke  oar.  Of  one  thing  we  are  sure, 
none  of  them  have  a  dear  little  sister  that  can  compare  with 
you,  or  love  her  half  as  much  as  we  our  princess." 

Elsie  laughed  when  reading  her  letter.  "Isn't  this  boy- 
like ?  "  she  said,  showing  it  to  her  father,  as  if  she  thoroughly 
understood  that  particular  type  of  humanity. 

The  rector  read  the  letter,  and  as  he  handed  it  back  to 
Elsie  remarked  :  "  Those  are  fine  boys,  Elsie  ;  which  of  them 
do  you  prefer? " 

"Why,"  answered  Elsie,  "I  love  them  both  better  than 
any  one  in  the  world  excepting  you." 

*'  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Vernon  ;  "  but  which  is  the  favorite  f 
You  certainly  like  one  better  than  the  other." 

"  No,"  said  Elsie  "  not  a  bit.  Can  not  sisters  love  their 
brothers  just  alike  ?  " 

"  But  these  are  not  your  brothers.  Which  do  you  think 
the  handsomer  ?  " 

"They  are  both  equally  handsome,"  replied  Elsie,  "the 
two  sweetest  and  handsomest  fellows  in  the  world.  Papa 
didn't  you  have  a  little  sister  when  you  were  young?  " 

"Yes,  dear  Elsie,"  said  the  rector  sighing,  "I  married 
her — she  was  your  dear  mother." 

"  Oh,  how  nice  that  was  !  "  exclaimed  the  little  girl. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  father,  much  amused,  "  and  in  a  few  years 
one  of  those  '  sweetest  and  handsomest  boys  '  will  begin  to 
think  of  something  else  beside  brotherhood.  When  you  are 
eighteen  they  will  both  want  to  marry  you." 

"  Why,  papa,"  she  said,  in  astonishment,  "  who  ever  heard 
of  such  a  thing  ?  Ronald  and  Arthur  couldn't  either  of  them 
marry  me,  for  I've  always  said  I  would  never  marry  any  one 
but  Prince  Golden  Hair." 

"  You  silly  little  puss,"  said  her  father.  "  Suppose  they 
were  to  marry  some  one  else — how  would  you  like  that  ?  " 


124  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

"  Oh,  but  they  can't — they  belong  to  me  ;  they  are  to  do 
just  as  they  have  always  been  doing — wait  on  me.  They 
can  live  with  me  and  Prince  Golden  Hair." 

The  rector  laughed.  "  Prince  Golden  Hair  would  have 
a  happy  time  with  two  such  handsome  fellows  flirting  with 
his  wife.  Suppose  Ronald  should  take  it  into  his  head  to 
tire  of  such  a  state  of  things  and  want  a  little  sister  all  to 
himself,  just  as  I  did,  and  go  off  and  and  marry  her — what 
then  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  Elsie,  ''  it  would  be  real  mean  of  him, 
and  I  don't  think  I  could  love  him  any  more.  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  would  do  it,  although  he  isn't  as  steady  always  as 
Arthur." 

"  But  suppose  after  Ronald  had  gone  off  and  married 
another  little  sister — seeing  how  happy  you  were  with  Prince 
Golden  Hair — suppose  that  Arthur  should  follow  his  ex- 
ample ;  what  would  you  think  of  that  1  " 

Elsie  opened  her  eyes  very  wide,  and  looked  actually 
frightened  at  the  idea  of  such  a  contingency.  Tears  gath- 
ered in  her  eyes.  *'  Oh,  papa,  I  should  die  if  that  came 
to  pass." 

The  rector  saw  how  the  land  lay,  as  the  sailors  say, 
and  continued  :  "  Well,  Elsie,  you  need  not  fear  that  Arthur 
will  ever  leave  you  to  go  after  any  one  else,  but  I  should  not 
be  surprised  if  he  were  to  trip  up  Prince  Golden  Hair's 
heels  and  do  as  I  did — run  off  and  marry  his  little  sis- 
ter." 

Elsie  dried  her  tears  in  a  moment,  and  putting  her  arms 
about  her  father's  neck  kissed  him  a  dozen  times  and  ran 
away. 

Elsie  was  but  thirteen,  yet  the  rector,  as  a  man  of  the 
world,  knew  to  what  such  intimacies  were  likely  to  lead  and 
that  in  this  case  matters  would  probably  end  by  Elsie's 
marrying  either  Arthur  or  Ronald,  which  one  he  cared  very 
little,  as  both  were  fine  fellows  and  both  would  be  wealthy. 
One  of  them  he  knew  would  be  a  sufferer,  and  he  wanted 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 25 

to  have  an  idea  in  time  how  matters  stood,  to  ward  off  the 
blow  from  the  loser,  for  he  felt  that  whoever  loved  Elsie 
it  would  be  the  love  of  a  lifetime. 

The  parsonage  of  Ellistown  nestled  in  a  wood  at  some 
distance  from  the  ancient  church,  and  would  have  been 
rather  lonely  but  for  the  little  beauty  who  gave  such  a  charm 
to  the  mansion. 

She  had  a  dove-cote,  and  the  snow-white  birds  circling 
above  the  trees  filled  the  air  with  their  soft  cooings,  coming 
around  Elsie  when  she  gave  a  peculiar  call.  Around  the 
mimic  lake  fluttered  brilliant  dragon-flies,  while  the  water 
was  washed  into  tiny  waves  by  the  breezes  which  swept 
over  its  surface. 

Not  gloomy  was  the  quiet  at  the  near  approach  of  eve 
when  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  played  among  the  branches 
of  the  veteran  oaks  and  silver  beeches.  Not  gloomy  was 
the  close-cut  lawn  lighted  up  with  the  glory  of  the  expir- 
ing day. 

Elsie,  when  she  ran  away  from  her  father,  had  sought 
her  room  to  bathe  her  flushed  cheeks  in  cool  water.  Her 
glass  showed  a  face  with  the  look  of  a  startled  deer  when 
she  hears  the  sound  of  the  hunters.  "  What  has  come  over 
me,"  said  Elsie  to  herself,  "that  I  should  act  so  foolishly. 
I  never  felt  this  way  before.  I  will  go  out  of  doors  and 
not  let  papa  see  me  thus."  So  she  went  to  the  little  lake,  and 
there  sat  on  the  bank  among  the  violets  looking  into  the 
clear  water  and  wondering  if  ever  it  could  come  to  pass  that 
the  boys  could  ever  want  any  other  companion  but  her. 

The  golden  tints  of  evening  were  changing  into  gray, 
the  doves  fluttered  around  as  if  to  draw  her  attention  ere 
they  sought  their  cot,  but  Elsie  did  not  heed  them.  One 
bolder  than  the  rest  lighted  on  her  shoulder  and  rubbed 
its  bill  against  her  cheek,  but  so  absorbed  was  she  in  thought 
that  while  she  stroked  the  plumage  of  her  pet  she  was 
scarcely  conscious  of  what  she  was  doing.  The  bird  after 
fluttering  for  a  moment  over  her  head  took  a  dip  in  the  wa- 


126  ARTHUR  ME R TON. 

ter  and  flew  to  its  home  in  company  with  its  companions, 
leaving  Elsie  still  gazing  into  the  water. 

Her  father  watched  her  from  the  window  of  his  study,  his 
heart  expanding  with  pride  and  pleasure  as  he  witnessed  the 
growing  of  his  daughter  towards  maturity,  the  darling  child 
in  whom  was  centered  all  his  happiness  and  who  brought 
back  to  him  the  days  of  her  mother.  Elsie  seemed  to  him 
like  a  half-blown  rose  opening  to  the  dews  of  heaven  and 
the  frosts  of  earth,  and  he  wondered  to  himself  whether 
she  was  destined  to  be  nourished  by  the  one  or  withered  by 
the  other. 

That  day  had  given  the  rector  food  for  serious  reflection, 
for  he  realized  that  his  darling  daughter  was  no  longer  a 

child,  but — 

Standing  with  reluctant  feet 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet. 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

So  it  was  with  Elsie  ;  she  was  gliding  into  June  with  all 
the  fragrance  of  a  beautiful  rose,  and  the  rector  realized  that 
he  must  exercise  a  more  watchful  care  over  his  daughter, 
for,  although  harm  might  not  come  to  Elsie  through  associ- 
ation with  two  such  handsome  youths  as  Arthur  and  Ronald, 
it  might  come  to  one  of  them,  for  no  matter  how  much  they 
might  esteem  each  other,  yet  they  could  not  be  rivals  for 
Elsie's  love  without  creating  discord,  perhaps  worse,  be- 
tween them. 

If  he  could  so  appreciate  her  loveliness,  what  must  be  the 
feelings  of  youth  with  the  hot  blood  coursing  through  its 
veins  ? 

"  She  is  too  beautiful  by  far,"  said  the  rector  to  himself 
as  he  gazed  at  Elsie  w^ith  the  dove  sitting  on  her  shoulder 
and  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  shining  on  her  golden  hair. 
**  What  a  pity  that  things  so  beautiful  should  make  the  heart 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


liy 


so  ache.  But  I  must  have  her  portrait  painted  by  Millais  just 
as  she  looks  now  in  all  her  innocent  loveliness." 

A  short  time  afterward  the  picture  was  painted  by  the 
distinguished  artist,  and  it  excited  great  admiration  when 
exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy. 

Indeed  the  picture  was  most  charming,  a  blonde  with 
golden  hair  and  large  blue  eyes  through  which  one  seemed 
to  look  into  the  depths  of  the  heart,  and  a  smile  playing 
around  her  lips  that  might  have  beguiled  an  angel. 

So  looked  Elsie  seated  on  the  bank  of  the  little  lake  with 
a  dove  kissing  her  blooming  cheek.  Beside  the  picture 
hangs  another  painted  some  years  later,  a  beautiful  woman 
with  the  same  smiling  countenance  as  in  the  earlier  picture. 
Diamonds  are  flashing  in  her  beautiful  hair,  grown  two  shades 
darker,  but  the  bright  eyes  which  once  sparkled  with  mis- 
chief are  subdued,  like  a  star  in  heaven  dimmed  by  a  pass- 
ing mist.  The  picture  is  that  of  one  who  has  known  sor- 
row, yet  the  expression  on  the  face  indicates  that  the  trials 
are  past  and  peace  now  reigns  where  passion  once  held  sway. 
The  bloom  of  maidenhood  is  no  longer  on  Elsie's  cheek 
and  the  dove  has  flown  from  her  shoulder,  but  she  is  still 
beautiful  and,  but  for  the  shadow  of  sorrow  still  resting  on 
her  brow,  there  would  be  no  happier  woman  in  England. 


CHAPTER   XL 

Young  people  as  a  general  thing  take  little  heed  of  time  ; 
years  pass  away  without  thought  of  the  precious  moments 
they  are  wasting. 

With  Arthur  and  Ronald  the  four  years  at  Cambridge 
soon  went  by.  The  tedium  of  study  was  lightened  by  vis- 
its home  during  the  vacations,  where  their  little  princess  con- 
tinued to  rule  them  as  despotically  as  when  they  were  twelve 
years  old. 

The  young  men  graduated  with  all  the  honors,  although 


128  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

Arthur  was  as  usual  in  advance  of  Ronald,  rather  to  the 
chagrin  of  the  latter,  who  feared  his  father  would  be  disap- 
pointed at  his  not  standing  first. 

Arthur,  who  was  not  ignorant  of  his  friend's  discomfort, 
said  to  him  :  "  You  know,  Ronald,  you  have  more  real  talent 
than  I  have.  I  am  obliged  to  study  harder  than  you.  My 
poor  invalid  mother  is  so  wrapped  up  in  me,  and  it  gives 
her  so  much  pleasure  to  see  me  stand  well  at  the  university, 
that  I  study  to  win,  while  you  keep  your  place  by  the  force 
of  natural  ability." 

At  the  close  of  the  term  in  1872,  the  two  friends  left 
Cambridge  highly  accomplished  scholars,  besides  being  pro- 
ficient in  all  athletic  exercises,  but  even  in  boating,  fencing, 
boxing,  and  cricket  Arthur  excelled  his  friend. 

The  difficulty  with  Ronald  was  that  he  was  anxious  to 
appear  well  in  Elsie's  eyes,  and  therefore  could  not  rest 
easy  under  Arthur's  superiority.  He  was  anxious  to  show 
Elsie  that  he  was  in  all  respects  equal  to  Arthur. 

Squire  Pentland  had  told  his  son  that  his  friend  would 
always  excel  him  in  everything,  and  Ronald  was  desirous 
to  show  his  father  that  he  was  mistaken  ;  but  even  in  shoot- 
ing, although  Arthur  had  commenced  the  practice  long 
after  Ronald,  he  had  so  improved  as  greatly  to  surpass  his 
friend. 

Two  handsomer  men  than  Arthur  and  Ronald  never 
left  Cambridge.  They  were  just  turned  twenty,  were  each 
six  feet  in  height  and  well  proportioned.  Their  whole  make 
up  was  that  of  two  English  gentlemen  who  would  do  credit 
to  their  country,  go  where  they  would.  According  to  Elsie's 
wishes,  both  dressed  alike,  and  but  for  their  different  com- 
plexions it  would  have  been  difficult  to  tell  them  apart. 

On  leaving  St.  John's  College  Arthur  and  Ronald  re- 
ceived an  ovation  from  their  fellow-collegians,  who  accompa- 
nied them  to  the  railway  station  with  noisy  demonstrations 
of  regard,  and  each  of  them  bore  away  a  silver  oar  as  a  tes- 
timony of  his  proficiency  in  boating. 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


129 


Who  that  has  passed  through  the  curriculum  of  the  ven- 
erable University  of  Cambridge  does  not  remember  the  glo- 
rious days  spent  within  its  ancient  halls  and  beneath  its 
magnificent  trees  in  grounds  which  have  no  superior  in  Eng- 
land or  elsewhere,  for  even  Oxford  with  all  its  magnificent 
colleges  must  yield  to  Cambridge  in  this  particular  !  A  uni- 
versity course  amid  such  surroundings  must  surely  exercise 
a  most  favorable  influence  on  the  mind  of  a  young  man,  es- 
pecially when  he  reflects  on  the  illustrious  statesmen,  au- 
thors, and  divines  who  have  preceded  him. 

When  Arthur  and  Ronald  arrived  home  they  had  a  warm 
reception  from  Ronald's  parents  and  Arthur's  mother.  As 
for  Mr.  Merton,  he  did  not  trouble  himself  about  his  son,  and 
did  not  see  him  until  the  following  Sunday,  when  he  came 
home  as  usual  from  the  mills,  preferring  to  spend  his  time 
over  accounts  and  in  scheming  to  add  to  his  wealth  rath- 
er than  to  give  pleasure  to  his  household.  But  he  was  not 
missed,  for  Arthur's  mother  lavished  such  caresses  and 
praises  upon  him  that  the  young  man  was  satisfied,  and  he 
asked  nothing  more.  For  the  present,  he  had  no  higher  as- 
pirations than  his  mother  and  his  home. 

The  afternoon  of  the  day  the  friends  reached  home,  they 
went  together  to  see  Elsie  Vernon  and  receive  her  congratu- 
lations. 

Elsie  was  awaiting  their  coming  on  the  tiptoe  of  expecta- 
tion, and  had  prepared  a  reception  worthy  the  occasion.  The 
afternoon  was  lovely,  and  she  had  a  table  spread  on  the 
lawn  on  which  was  a  collation  and  a  profusion  of  flowers. 
At  one  end  of  the  table  were  two  objects  the  purpose  of 
which  was  not  evident.  The  party  was  composed  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pentland,  Mrs.  Merton,  Mr.  Vernon,  Elsie,  Arthur, 
and  Ronald. 

It  had  been  some  months  since  Elsie  had  seen  her  two 

brothers,  as  she  called  them,  and  during  the  interval  she 

had  grown  considerably,  and  the  long  dresses  she  now  wore 

added  perceptibly  to  her  stature. 
9 


I30  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

Elsie  was  now  just  budding  into  womanhood  and  re- 
deeming the  promise  of  beauty  given  by  her  childhood.  She 
was  in  fact  gloriously  beautiful,  differing  from  the  picture 
taken  by  the  lake  in  the  maturity  which  had  lately  come  to 
her.  From  her  mother  she  had  inherited  a  very  attractive 
manner  which  had  grown  with  her  to  womanhood.  Elsie's 
beauty  was  quite  enough  to  make  a  susceptible  man  lose  his 
senses  without  this  addition  to  her  attractions. 

At  four  o'clock  the  party  assembled  on  the  lawn  under 
the  boughs  of  a  wide- spreading  oak  which  stood  in  solitary 
grandeur.  Elsie  and  her  father  advanced  to  meet  their 
guests.  Ronald  could  hardly  contain  himself,  while  Arthur 
walked  slowly  with  his  mother  leaning  on  his  arm.  Elsie 
shook  Ronald's  hand  and  exclaimed  :  "  School-days  are  over 
now,  and  you  have  come  back  to  your  little  sister.  You 
shall  live  amid  roses  and   my  smiles." 

As  Arthur  and  his  mother  came  up  Elsie  turned  to  them. 
She  had  words  of  welcome  prepared  for  Arthur,  but  did  not 
utter  them.  He  took  her  hand  while  she  looked  earnestly 
at  him  without  power  to  say  a  word  ;  blushes  mantled  her 
cheeks  as  she  kissed  Mrs.  Merton  and  Mrs.  Pentland  affec- 
tionately. 

Elsie  soon  collected  herself — and  chatted  away  as  usual 
with  the  party, 

Arthur  was  a  little  disappointed  at  his  reception,  but  in 
a  short  time  recovered  his  equanimity. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Vernon  had  noticed  the  meeting  of  Elsie 
with  the  young  men  and  formed  his  own  conclusions.  The 
incident  was  not  apparently  one  of  importance,  but  a  small 
indication  in  the  sky  often  foretells  a  tempest  that  strews 
the  earth  with  ruin  and  lashes  the  ocean  in  fury.  The  rec- 
tor could  form  some  idea  of  the  fate  awaiting  the  three  young 
people  in  that  party.  It  could  not  be  that  either  of  two 
young  men  loving  Elsie  as  they  doubtless  did  would  yield 
such  a  prize  to  the  other  without  a  struggle,  and  he  shud- 
dered as  he  thought  of  the  possible  consequences. 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


131 


But  the  rest  of  the  party  were  troubled  by  no  misgivings. 
Elsie  placed  her  two  brothers  one  on  each  side,  while  the 
rest  of  the  company  arranged  themselves  around  the  table. 
Then  Elsie  uncovering  the  parcel  took  from  it  two  wreaths 
of  roses,  one  of  Marechal  Niel  the  other  of  Jacqueminot,  and 
placed  the  former  on  the  head  of  Arthur,  and  the  latter  on 
that  of  Ronald,  saying  :  "  Thus  do  I  crown  the  heroes  who 
return  from  the  field  covered  with  honors.  May  Ihey  be 
victorious  in  all  their  undertakings  !  " 

The  applauding  guests  drank  the  health  of  the  heroes, 
who  modestly  returned  thanks. 

A  happier  hour  was  seldom  spent  than  that  passed  by 
the  party  on  the  lawn  under  the  shadow  of  the  giant  oak. 
The  sun  was  now  declining,  and  the  doves,  missing  Elsie 
from  the  lake  where  she  was  wont  to  feed  them,  sought  her 
at  the  table  on  the  lawn  fluttering  around  without  heeding 
the  guests  at  table,  and  her  particular  pet  perched  himself 
on  her  shoulder.  After  a  distribution  of  crumbs  Elsie 
made  the  signal  for  them  to  go,  and  they  fluttered  off  over 
the  lake,  stopping  for  a  moment  to  drink,  and  disappeared 
in  their  snug  dwelling. 

"That  is  a  hint,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  ''  that  it  is  time  for 
us  to  retire  indoors."  The  rector  then  gave  a  benediction 
over  the  feast,  expressing  the  hope  that  God  would  incline 
the  hearts  of  all  present  to  be  grateful  for  his  mercies,  and 
so  guide  and  purify  them  that  no  strife  would  ever  enter 
their  minds,  and  whatever  blessings  might  fall  to  one  let  the 
others  be  satisfied  with  their  own  portion,  and  thank  God 
for  it. 

Shortly  after  the  guests  departed  for  their  homes,  the 
rector  and  his  daughter  accompanying  them  a  short  distance 
through  the  neighboring  wood. 

Few  words  passed  between  Mr.  Vernon  and  his  daugh- 
ter on  their  way  home,  except  that  Elsie  couldn't  help  re- 
marking what  handsome  young  men  Arthur  and  Ronald  had 
grown  to  be,  to  which  her  father  assented,  saying  they  re- 


132 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


minded  him  of  the  statues  of  Hector  and  Achilles.  "  I  hope" 
he  added,  "they  will  have  a  better  fate." 

No  more  was  said  on  the  subject,  and  Elsie  retired  early. 
While  standing  before  the  glass,  arranging  her  hair  for  the 
night,  she  said  to  her  reflection  :  "  I  wonder  what  papa 
meant  by  his  classical  comparison.  I  am  sure  he  meant 
Arthur  for  Achilles,  and  Ronald  for  Hector."  She  sighed 
as  she  extinguished  the  candles  and  endeavored  to  com- 
pose herself  to  sleep.  The  effort  was  in  vain,  and  it  was 
hours  before  tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer  paid  her  his  wel- 
come visit. 

Next  morning,  after  breakfast,  Arthur  and  Ronald  went 
over  to  the  rectory  together,  but  they  did  not  talk  with  their 
usual  volubility.  At  length  Ronald  remarked  :  "  Arthur, 
have  you  noticed  how  beautiful  Elsie  has  grown  to  be  ?  She 
is  an  angel,  and  I  could  hardly  sleep  last  night  for  thinking 
of  her." 

"  Yes,"  replied  his  friend,  '*  my  experience  was  similar  to 
yours,  but  Elsie  is  not  an  angel,  although  she  is  the  most 
perfect  creature  I  ever  beheld"  —  here  Ronald  winced  — 
"  but  we  shall  lose  her  some  day,  and  then  what  shall  we  do  } 
You  remember  how  much  she  talks  of  Prince  Golden  Hair, 
and  you  know  that  every  young  woman  sets  up  an  ideal  of 
her  own.  She  may  work  her  imagination  up  to  the  point 
of  believing  the  man  she  marries  and  Prince  Golden  Hair 
to  be  one  and  the  same,  but  this  will  only  happen  where 
the  husband  by  unbounded  devotion  has  supplanted  her 
ideal.  We  must  make  up  our  minds  to  lose  Elsie  some 
day." 

Ronald  turned  pale,  and  he  spoke  with  difficulty.  "Who 
would  take  Elsie  from  us,  our  playmate  in  boyhood  ?  Let 
any  man  dare  try  it,  and  I  would  challenge  him  to  mortal 
combat." 

"That's  all  very  well  to  talk  about,"  said  Arthur,  "but 
in  England  men  are  not  allowed  to  shoot  each  other  merely 
because  they  happen  to  love  the  same  woman.    No,  Ronald, 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


133 


you  must  join  me  in  making  Elsie  happy,  no  matter  who 
Prince  Golden  Hair  may  chance  to  be." 

Ronald  said  no  more.  There  was  a  lump  in  his  throat 
that  he  could  not  get  rid  of,  and  he  only  recovered  his  equa- 
nimity when  the  rectory  appeared  in  view  and  he  saw  Elsie 
near  the  lake  feeding  her  doves. 

Elsie  seated  herself  on  a  low  chair  near  the  house  while 
her  two  subjects  sat  on  a  couple  of  rugs  which  vvere  laid 
upon  the  grass,  and  soon  in  her  guileless  conversation,  the 
young  men  forgot  that  Elsie  had  ever  harbored  a  thought 
of  Prince  Golden  Hair  or  of  any  one  else  except  them- 
selves. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  happily  away,  one  day  pretty 
much  like  another.  Much  of  the  time  was  spent  in  listen- 
ing to  Elsie's  music,  which  her  subjects  lauded  to  the  skies. 
On  Saturdays,  if  the  weather  were  favorable,  the  young  men 
went  out  shooting,  and  they  managed  to  keep  the  rector's 
larder  supplied  with  game. 

There  was  nothing  particularly  eventful  in  these  excur- 
sions, except  that  Ronald  had  on  his  father's  place — their 
usual  shooting-ground — a  young  fellow  of  about  his  own  age, 
but  in  appearance  far  from  prepossessing. 

On  several  occasions  while  they  were  shooting  Arthur 
noticed  the  fellow,  and  one  day  asked  Ronald  who  he 
was,  saying  he  had  never  seen  a  more  hang-dog  counte- 
nance. 

"Why,"  said  Ronald,  laughing,  "that  is  your  old  friend 
Bill  Briggs,  to  whom  you  gave  such  a  thrashing  years  ago. 
He  is  now  under  game-keeper  at  Moorland,  and  an  excellent 
one  he  is." 

"  He  may  be  a  good  game-keeper "  said  Arthur,  "  but 
according  to  my  remembrance  he  was  preparing  to  poach  at 
the  time  I  thrashed  him.  He  hasn't  grown  any  handsomer, 
that  is  evident." 

Nothing  more  was  said  about  Bill  Briggs  at  the  time, 
but  occasionally  Arthur  imagined  that  the   fellow  was  fur- 


134  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

lively  watching  him.  But  of  this  he  thought  little,  particu- 
larly as  the  assistant  game-keeper  provided  his  friend  and 
himself  with  such  good  sport. 

For  six  months  Arthur  and  Ronald  lived  in  Elysium. 
Prince  Golden  Hair  had  not  appeared,  and  Elsie  never 
seemed  to  regret  his  non-arrival. 

One  day  Squire  Pentland  said  to  his  wife  :  "  I  must  tell 
you  something  which  I  hope  you  will  not  consider  bad  news. 
I  have  made  arrangements  for  Ronald  to  take  a  place  in 
the  London  banking-house  of  Trenholm  and  Brent.  He 
has  had  a  good  vacation,  and  it  is  time  he  went  to  work  to 
learn  a  profession." 

Mrs.  Pentland  was  surprised,  for  she  had  hoped  that  Ron- 
ald was  to  remain  with  her.  She  could  scarcely  refrain 
from  tears.  "  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  what  put  that  idea  into 
your  head  ? " 

"  Why,"  said  her  husband,  "  I  have  always  determined 
that  Ronald  should  be  a  banker.  Making  money  is  certainly 
a  delightful  occupation,  and  I  do  not  want  him  to  live  in 
idleness." 

Ronald,  when  informed  of  the  plan,  agreed  with  his 
father,  and  said  :  "  I  shall  be  delighted  to  go  to  London  if 
Arthur  will  accompany  me  and  go  into  some  business  there. 
We  have  been  together  so  long  that  it  would  be  like  lopping 
off  a  limb  if  I  were  separated  from  him,  and  I  think  he  will 
have  the  same  idea  with  regard  to  me." 

"  Perhaps  it  can  be  managed,"  said  the  squire,  **for  Mr. 
Merton  will  naturally  want  his  son  to  have  employment. 
Although  he  is  a  rich  man  he  may  lose  his  money,  and  a 
young  man  who  depends  altogether  on  his  father  is  not  likely 
ever  to  amount  to  much." 

It  was  agreed  that  the  squire  should  approach  Mr.  Mer- 
ton on  the  subject,  while  Ronald  hastened  at  once  to  talk 
over  matters  with  Arthur. 

The  latter  was  delighted  at  the  idea  of  embarking  in  bus- 
iness and  making  his  own  living.     He  knew  that  his  father 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


135 


had  no  affection  for  him,  and  on  that  account  had  the 
greater  desire  to  be  independent. 

When  Mr.  Merton  came  home  on  Saturday  night  he 
found  a  letter  on  his  dressing-table  from  his  wife  asking  him 
to  consent  to  Squire  Pentland's  proposition  and  obtain  for 
Arthur  a  position  in  a  banking-house. 

It  was  with  reluctance  that  Julia  consented  to  her  son's 
leaving  her  again,  for  she  had  hoped  that  after  finishing  his 
studies  he  would  remain  with  her  as  long  as  she  lived.  Feel- 
ing that  she  could  not  change  her  destiny,  Julia  had  long 
since  made  up  her  mind  to  accept  the  situation  and  let  Ar- 
thur fill  the  blank  in  her  heart  caused  by  the  loss  of  Eus- 
tis  Ferris. 

When  Mr.  Merton  appeared  on  Sunday  morning  he  had 
his  wife's  letter  in  his  hand  and  seemed  to  be  in  quite  a 
pleasant  frame  of  mind,  and  greeted  the  mother  and  son  in 
what  was  for  him  a  cordial  manner,  even  asking  Julia  if  she 
had  seen  in  the  paper  an  account  of  the  large  sales  made 
from  the  ]Merton  mills  during  the  past  year.  On  being  an- 
swered in  the  negative,  Mr.  Merton  sat  back  pompously  in 
his  chair  and  read  it  all  to  her.  According  to  this  statement, 
there  had  been  sold  during  the  year  three  hundred  thousand 
pounds'  worth  of  manufactured  goods,  and  after  paying  all 
expenses  Mr.  Merton  declared  that  his  net  profit  would  be 
a  hundred  thousand  pounds. 

Mrs.  ^Merton  congratulated  her  husband  on  his  success, 
but  she  could  not  help  feeling  that  this  great  profit  had  been 
made  through  the  oppression  of  the  poor  operatives  in  the 
manufactory. 

"Arthur,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  looking  keenly  at  his  son, 
"  it  is  time  you  should  put  your  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and 
help  me  double  my  fortune.  I  want  to  see  my  name  figure 
as  that  of  the  richest  commoner  in  England.  I  may  one 
day  receive  a  title  of  nobility  which  you  will  inherit  with  all 
the  property." 

Arthur  groaned  inwardly  at  the  idea  of  serving  under 


136  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

his  father  in  the  mills,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  as  if  to  exclude 
the  dreadful  prospect. 

"  Many  more  extraordinary  things  have  happened,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Merton,  "  than  that  I  should  obtain  a  peerage, 
but  I  don't  propose  to  subject  you  to  the  drudgery  of  the 
mills,  but  intend  you  shall  be  a  banker.  I  can  furnish  you 
with  any  amount  of  capital  when  you  are  competent  to  go 
into  business  for  yourself,  which  ought  to  be  the  case  after 
three  years'  hard  work  in  Childs  &  Go's  bank,  where  I  keep 
my  money.  When  we  set  up  business  as  Merton  &  Son 
you  will  be  able  to  assume  a  good  position  in  society,  you 
will  make  friends,  for  money  is  all  powerful,  and  with  my 
management  you  will  command  such  influence  that  we  shall 
be  able  to  reach  the  highest  round  of  the  ladder." 

Arthur  was  quite  dazzled  by  the  prospect  which  his  father 
presented  to  him,  but  recovering  in  a  moment,  he  said  :  "Al- 
though I  am  delighted,  sir,  at  the  prospect  held  out  to  me, 
yet  I  could  not  be  happy  without  my  mother." 

"  She  may  live  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  for  I  shall 
be  so  absorbed  in  business  at  the  mills  that  I  shall  be  here 
but  seldom.  You  can  procure  plans  for  a  house  which  can 
be  finished  and  furnished  in  twelve  months  in  such  style  as 
my  wealth  calls  for.  There  you  can  receive  your  friends, 
and  add  to  your  importance.  In  ten  years  I  will  be  Lord 
Merton.  This  place  you  can  have  as  a  country  residence. 
I  shall  dwell  at  the  mills.     Is  this  arrangement  agreeable  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  so,"  said  Arthur. 

''For  the  present,"  continued  Mr.  Merton,  "you  can 
provide  handsome  lodgings  for  your  mother  and  yourself 
in  London  until  the  new  house  is  finished,  by  which  time 
you  will  have  a  good  general  idea  of  the  banking  business, 
the  secret  of  which  is  to  be  backed  by  plenty  of  capital. 
When  your  social  status  is  firmly  established  I  will  appear 
upon  the  scene,  and  as  I  have  conquered  all  other  obstacles, 
am  certain  I  can  attain  the  goal  I  now  seek." 

Julia  shuddered  at  her  husband's  words,  for  her  own 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  13^7 

case  was  an  illustration  of  how  he  could  triumph  over  ob- 
stacles. She  had  no  doubt  of  his  success  in  the  present  in- 
stance, as  he  was  prepared  to  go  to  any  lengths  in  attain- 
ing his  object,  but  she  was  not  pleased  at  the  idea  of  Ar- 
thur's succeeding  to  a  title  obtained  in  so  questionable  a 
manner. 

Julia,  however,  expressed  her  satisfaction  at  her  hus- 
band's arrangements  in  a  proper  manner,  but  although  de- 
lighted at  the  prospect  of  living  with  her  son,  she  felt  that 
Mr.  Merton  had  delayed  too  long  doing  anything  to  give 
her  pleasure,  and  she  distrusted  him  so  thoroughly  that  she 
could  hardly  help  showing  it. 

She  knew  that  Mr.  Merton's  apparent  liberality  was  pure 
selfishness,  and  that  he  did  not  consider  either  her  welfare 
or  Arthur's  in  the  transaction. 

The  prospect  of  escaping  from  her  husband's  society  was 
a  cause  of  thankfulness.  It  is  true  he  had  stated  that  he 
would  come  to  London  when  his  plans  were  matured  ;  but 
Julia  trusted  that  his  visits  might  be  few  and  far  be- 
tween. 

That  night  Julia  slept  little,  thinking  of  her  promised 
freedom,  while  Arthur  lay  awake  meditating  on  the  life  he 
must  lead  in  the  metropolis  and  the  chance  of  making  a  nam.e 
for  himself. 

As  for  Mr.  Merton,  he  beheld  himself  a  member  of  the 
peerage  and  seated  in  the  House  of  Lords.  Stranger  things 
than  this  had  happened.  If  the  Dublin  distiller  Guinness 
could  be  made  a  baronet  for  paying  the  bill  for  restoring 
St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  why  shouldn't  John  Merton,  with 
money  enough  to  restore  half  a  dozen  cathedrals,  be  raised 
to  the  peerage  } 

If  necessary  he  would  expend  a  million  or  two  in  build- 
ing a  huge  iron-clad  that  could  destroy  anything  afloat,  and 
present  it  to  the  Government. 

All  through  the  night  these  brilliant  phantoms  chased 
each  other  through  the  manufacturer's  brain,  and  at  day- 


138  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

light  he  was  up  and  hurrying  to  catch  the  train  for  Lyne- 
ham,  where  he  ground  as  much  as  possible  out  of  his  slaves 
to  enable  him  to  carry  out  his  cherished  plan. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

All  day  Sunday  was  spent  by  Arthur  and  his  mother 
talking  about  their  future,  and  so  much  were  they  engrossed 
that  the  young  man  did  not  even  go  to  see  Ronald,  that 
they  might  pay  their  accustomed  visit  to  the  rectory. 

For  pretty  much  the  same  reason  Ronald  had  spent  the 
day  with  his  parents  and  evening  came  before  he  was 
aware. 

Elsie  in  the  mean  while  was  lonely  enough,  and  began  to 
suspect  her  subjects  of  weakening  in  their  allegiance  ;  but 
although  she  wondered  at  the  neglect,  Elsie  knew  that  noth- 
ing serious  had  happened  or  she  would  have  heard  of  it. 

That  night  she  dreamed  she  was  in  a  beautiful  triumphal 
car,  to  which  all  her  doves  were  harnessed,  driving  through 
the  gates  of  paradise,  where  Arthur  and  Ronald  stood  to 
receive  her.  Elsie's  thoughts  were  so  innocent  that  her 
dreams  were  always  tinged  with  heavenly  ideas.  In  hsr 
heart  there  was  no  room  for  anything  sinful. 

On  Monday  after  breakfast,  Arthur  went  to  tell  Ronald 
of  the  arrangements  made  by  his  father,  whereat  his  friend 
was  overjoyed.  "  Now,  Arthur,"  said  Ronald,  *'  go  home, 
saddle  your  horse,  and  we'll  take  a  gallop  together  over 
the  hills.  I'll  have  mother's  horse  saddled  for  Elsie,  and 
we'll  take  the  poor  little  thing  with  us.  How  dreadfully  she 
will  miss  us  when  we  go  to  London  !  " 

"Yes,"  repHed  Arthur,  "but  don't  forget  that  while  we 
are  away.  Prince  Golden  Hair  may  put  in  an  appearance  and 
console  her  for  our  absence." 

"  If  I  thought  so,"  said  Ronald,  "  I  should  not  wish  to 
go  away,  but  would  want  to  stay  here  and  thrash  Prince 


ARTHUR  MERTOiY,  139 

Golden  Hair."     His  eyes  flashed,  while  Arthur,  laughing, 
went  home  to  get  his  horse. 

Half  an  hour  afterward,  as  he  was  returning,  he  saw  a 
number  of  men  assembled  in  front  of  Squire  Pentland's 
house,  tv/o  of  them  lifting  a  person  who  seemed  to  have  been 
hurt,  while  near  the  gate  leading  from  the  stables  lay 
Ronald's  horse. 

Arthur  hastened  to  the  spot,  jumped  from  his  horse  and 
saw  Ronald  apparently  dead  and  his  mother,  leaning  over 
the  body,  crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

A  moment  later  Ronald  was  laid  on  his  bed.  Arthur 
took  his  friend's  hand,  and — while  the  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks — said,  "  Ronald,  don't  you  know  me  ?  "  At  the  fa- 
miliar voice,  Ronald  seemed  to  rouse  a  little  and  partially 
opening  his  eyes,  said  faintly:  *'  Is  that  you  Arthur?  I  am 
badly  hurt  ;  give  me  some  water." 

"  A  good  sign  that,"  said  the  squire.  ''  Put  a  little  brandy 
with  it." 

The  doctor  came,  and  found  that  although  badly  bruised, 
none  of  the  patient's  bones  were  broken,  and  after  taking  a 
light  anodyne  the  latter  fell  into  an  uneasy  slum.ber. 

Arthur,  who  was  greatly  distressed  at  the  accident,  offered 
to  stay  and  nurse  his  friend,  but  Mrs.  Pentland  said  :  "  No, 
Arthur,  I  must  nurse  him  ;  but  one  thing  you  may  do,  and 
that  is  go  to  Elsie  and  break  the  news  to  her  as  gently  as 
possible  ;  she  will  be  completely  broken  down  by  the  intelli- 
gence, and  should  not  be  too  roughly  informed  of  the  acci- 
dent. You  know,  Arthur,  that  Ronald  has  watched  over 
Elsie  from  her  infancy,  and  when  he  was  but  four  years  old 
would  insist  on  going  to  the  rectory  every  day  to  see  her  in 
her  cradle.  His  heart  has  always  been  wrapped  up  in  her. 
God  will  that  everything  may  end  as  we  desire  !  " 

"I  will  go  at  once,"  said  Arthur,  and  he  went  his  way, 
his  heart  torn  by  conflicting  emotions.  Meeting  one  of  the 
grooms,  the  man  informed  him  how  the  accident  had  oc- 
curred. 


I40  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

When  Ronald  ordered  the  horses  saddled  they  were  both 
very  fresh,  not  having  been  ridden  for  several  days,  and  when 
he  mounted  his  own  horse  the  other  broke  away  and  jumped 
over  the  gate.  Ronald's  horse  followed,  and  he  let  him 
have  his  head,  but  in  clearing  the  wall  the  horse's  hoof 
struck  the  top,  and  he  fell  headlong  with  his  rider.  The  ani- 
mal was  badly  bruised,  but  got  off  easier  than  his  master. 
"That  is  hall,  Mr.  Arthur"  concluded  the  groom.  "I'll 
*ave  'im  haround  soon,  an'  I  'ope  Mr.  Ronald  will  fare  has 
well  hunder  the  'ands  hov  'is  doctor  has  the  'oss  will  hun- 
der  mine." 

Arthur  now  hurried  to  the  rectory,  and  found  Elsie  by 
the  lakeside  with  her  doves.  Seeing  Arthur,  she  went  to 
meet  him,  and  from  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  saw 
that  something  had  happened.  "  Tell  me,  dear  Arthur,"  she 
exclaimed  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"Be  calm,  Elsie,"  replied  Arthur,  "and  when  you  get 
over  your  excitement  I  will  tell  you."  They  walked  to  the 
house,  entered  the  parlor,  and  sat  down  side  by  side  on  a 
sofa. 

"  Elsie,"  he  said,  "  do  not  be  distressed  at  what  I  tell 
you.  Matters  may  not  be  very  bad,  for  hunters  are  often 
thrown  from  their  horses  without  much  damage  being  done." 

"  Heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Elsie  ;  "  Ronald  has  been  thown 
from  his  horse  !  "  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  But  he  has  broken  no  bones,"  said  Arthur,  "  and  is 
now  asleep."     Then  he  went  on  and  told  the  whole  story. 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Elsie,  "  what  should  I  have  done  had  Ron- 
ald been  killed,  and  how  do  I  know  but  what  he  is  injured 
internally  and  will  not  recover  !  "  and  she  sobbed  as  if  her 
heart  would  break. 

"  Elsie,  this  grief  is  unreasonable,"  said  Arthur.  "  Ronald 
is  not  seriously  injured.  I  am  sure  I  would  agree  to  have  ten 
times  as  many  bruises  if  I  could  get  these  sweet  tears  shed 
for  me." 

"  You  I "  she  said,  turning  quickly  around,  the  tears  still 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


141 


glistening  in  her  eyelashes.  ''  You  get  hurt !  "  laying  her  hand 
on  his  arm  and  looking  affectionately  into  his  face.  "I  be- 
lieve it  would  kill  me  to  know  that  you  were  suffering  and 
I  not  able  to  nurse  and  watch  over  you.  It  is  different  with 
Ronald,  who  has  always  been  to  me  as  a  brother,  and  who, 
until  you  joined  us,  was  my  only  companion,  and  has  always 
done  everything  in  his  power  to  please  me.  I  can  never  do 
enough  to  return  his  affection,  and  to  think  of  him  lying 
sorely  hurt  and  I  not  near  him  !  What  will  his  poor  mother 
do  if  Ronald  were  to  die  !  " 

*'  You  love  him  very  dearly,  do  you  not,  Elsie  ?  "  inquired 
Arthur,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion. 

"  Yes,  I  do  ;  no  girl  ever  loved  a  brother  better." 

"And  he  loves  you  as  well,  does  he  not  ? " 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it,"  she  replied.  "  I  am  sure  he  has 
given  me  many  proofs  of  it." 

"Ah,"  sighed  Arthur,  "what  a  happy  life  you  have 
before  you  I  Ronald  will  soon  be  well  again,  and  you  will  be 
able  to  tell  him  all  this,  and  he  will  be  delighted  to  think 
Prince  Golden  Hair  you  talked  so  much  about  will  never 
come  between  you  and  him." 

"  Between  me  and  him  ! "  repeated  Elsie.  "  What  has  such 
a  childish  ideal  as  Prince  Golden  Hair  got  to  do  with  Ron- 
ald and  myself.^"  She  looked  earnestly  into  Arthur's  eyes 
awaiting  an  answer.     "  Tell  me  at  once  what  you  mean." 

Arthur  hesitated  for  a  moment,  at  loss  w^hat  to  say. 
Should  he  open  the  eyes  of  this  innocent  creature,  and  let 
her  know  the  difference  between  a  brother's  love  and  that 
higher  and  more  sacred  feeling  which  makes  or  mars  a  life, 
which  can  transform  an  arid  desert  into  a  delightful  land- 
scape or  make  the  most  beautiful  spot  in  the  world  as  dis- 
mal as  a  wilderness.  Matters  had  gone  so  far  that  Arthur 
felt  he  must  take  a  step  that  would  either  make  him  the  hap- 
piest man  on  earth  or  else  the  most  miserable. 

"  Elsie,"  said  Arthur,  "  I  am  not  acting  wisely  or  perhaps 
honorably  while  Ronald  is  lying  helpless  and  suffering,  and 


142 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


therefore,  although  it  may  forfeit  my  happiness,  I  will  stop 
here  and  never  mention  this  subject  again." 

"  No,"  said  Elsie,  "  I  insist  on  knowing  what  you  mean  ; 
you  may  be  resting  under  a  delusion." 

"  If  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  said  Arthur,  "  you  must  for- 
give me.  This  morning  when  I  left  Mrs.  Pentland.  to  come 
to  you,  she  was  quite  overcome  with  the  accident  that  had 
befallen  her  son,  and  spoke  of  the  deep  grief  you  would  feel 
on  hearing  of  it." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Elsie  ;  "  how  could  I  feel  otherwise  ?" 

Arthur  continued  :  "  Ronald's  mother  then  spoke  of  a 
warmer  attachment  between  you  and  her  son  than  friendship, 
which  she  hoped  would  lead  to  a  union,  and  give  you  both 
great  happiness." 

"  I  don't  understand  you  yet,"  said  Elsie.  *'  What 
greater  happiness  could  I  have  than  to  see  Ronald  well 
and  happy .?  " 

Arthur  thought  he  had  never  seen  Elsie  so  slow  to  com- 
prehend the  situation  of  affairs  before,  but  he  went  on  des- 
perately. "  Ronald's  mother  seemed  to  think  that  you  and 
her  son  would  one  day  be  united  in  marriage  and — " 

Elsie  jumped  up  from  the  sofa,  her  lips  trembling,  and 
with  a  look  of  despair  upon  her  countenance.  "  Oh 
Arthur,"  she  cried,  "  does  Mrs.  Pentland  deceive  herself  in 
that  way,  and  is  it  possible  that  Ronald  may  think  so  too  .'* 
It  could  never  be.  I  love  Ronald  dearly  as  a  brother,  but 
nothing  more,  for — " 

"  For  what,  Elsie  ? "  interrupted  Arthur.  "  And  may  my 
tongue  be  paralyzed  if  I  speak  wrongfully,  if  you  love  Ron- 
ald as  a  brother  only,  I  want  to  know  what  I  am  to  you  }  " 

Elsie  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  while  tears  trickled 
through  her  fingers. 

"  I  love  you,"  continued  Arthur,  "v/ith  my  whole  soul; 
not  as  a  brother,  but  as  one  who  would  make  you  his  wife 
and  go  with  you  through  life  in  peace  and  happiness.  I 
hope  I  am  not  acting  dishonorably,  but  must  speak  or  die. 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


143 


There  can  be  but  one  love  from  me  to  you.  Speak,  Elsie, 
speak  if  it  kills  me." 

Elsie  took  her  hands  from  her  eyes  and  there  was,  in 
spite  of  her  tears,  an  expression  of  happiness  on  her  face 
such  as  Arthur  had  never  seen  there  before. 

"  Oh,  Arthur,"  she  said,  "  you  have  made  me  so  happy  ! 
This  will  be  a  day  sacred  to  me  while  I  live.  I  have  loved 
you,  not  only  with  the  affection  of  a  sister,  but  with  that 
stronger  attachment  which  can  never  be  felt  but  once  in  the 
world.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart."  Elsie  dropped  her 
head  on  Arthur's  shoulder,  and  this  time  wept  tears  of  joy, 
while  he  pressed  the  first  kiss  of  love  on  her  innocent  lips. 

How  rapidly  the  thoughts  flitted  through  his  brain  !  He 
thanked  God  at  the  prospect  of  his  union  with  one  whom 
he  considered  an  angel,  with  no  more  similitude  to  the  wom- 
an of  fashion  than  the  rose  to  the  nettle.  That  she  was  not 
one  who  would  shine  in  the  world  of  fashion  he  knew,  but 
with  her  grace  and  beauty,  he  was  sure  she  would  eclipse 
those  who  are  educated  purposely  to  entrap  men  of  wealth 
and  position. 

Arthur  and  Elsie  sat  for  some  time  in  silence.  At  length 
she  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder.  "  Oh,  Arthur,  how 
happy  I  am  !  I  feel  like  the  lark  soaring  to  the  clouds  and 
singing  as  he  flies.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  reached  the  gates  of 
paradise  and  obtained  a  glimpse  of  heaven.  Are  you  as 
happy  as  that  ?  " 

"Elsie,"  he  replied,  ''  I  am  not  demonstrative,  but  I  feel 
as  if  all  the  treasures  of  the  earth  lay  at  my  feet,  while 
choirs  of  angels  assured  me  of  happiness." 

"  I  never  knew  before,"  said  Elsie,  "  what  was  wanting  ; 
happy  as  I  have  been  there  was  a  void  in  my  heart.  Only 
when  you  were  with  me  did  I  feel  satisfied  ;  when  you  were 
absent,  even  for  an  hour,  my  heart  felt  its  longings  return. 
And  now  my  heart  is  so  full  of  love  that  I  know  not  how 
to  express  it.  I  feel  like  a  flower  that  drinks  in  the  warmth 
of  the  morning  sun,  and  as  if  I  would  like  to  fly  to  heaven 


144 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


and  thank  God  for  what  he  has  given  me.  Oh,  how  I  have 
watched  your  coming  when  you  have  been  absent  from 
me,  and  how  I  have  gazed  on  your  receding  form  as  you 
passed  from  my  sight !  It  seemed  as  if  you  took  my  life  with 
you.  This  was  love,  and  I  did  not  know  it,  yet,  although  I 
loved  Ronald  as  a  brother,  I  have  never  felt  toward  him 
as  I  do  toward  you.  I  hope  it  will  make  him  happy  to 
know  how  we  love  each  other." 

*'  No,  Elsie,"  said  Arthur,  "  there  will  come  the  trouble. 
Ronald  has  watched  you  from  infancy  to  womanhood,  and 
all  his  associations  are  bound  up  in  yours.  His  is  a  more 
excitable  temperament  than  mine,  and  while  I  have  nursed 
my  love  in  secret,  fearing  almost  to  betray  it  to  myself,  I 
have  noticed  in  him  evidences  of  a  stronger  feeling  than 
exists  between  brother  and  sister.  I  am  satisfied  Ronald 
loves  you  in  the  same  manner  that  I  do,  although  he  can 
never  love  you  with  the  same  fervor." 

Elsie  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes.  "  Heavens,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "  what  a  dreadful  misfortune  !  I  pity  Ronald  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

''Yes,"  said  Arthur,  "what  will  be  life  and  happiness  to 
me  will  I  fear  be  death  to  him.  Often  as  my  love  grew  upon 
me  I  have  seen  you  and  Ronald  talking  and  laughing  to- 
gether, and  you  always  talked  more  freely  to  him  than  you 
did  to  me.  I  thought  how  well  you  were  matched,  and  won- 
dered to  what  corner  of  the  world  I  should  wander  when 
you  and  Ronald  had  plighted  your  faith  to  each  other.  I 
determined  neither  of  you  should  ever  know  my  grief,  and  I 
knew  that  I  should  always  be  lovingly  remembered  by  you 
both.  Until  to-day,  Elsie,  I  never  thought  you  loved  me ; 
but  if  you  loved  any  one  I  supposed  it  to  be  Ronald." 

"Oh,  Arthur,  how  could  you  think  so,  how  could  you  !  " 

**Why,"  replied  Arthur,  "you  were  so  much  more  com- 
municative with  Ronald,  and  always  gave  him  the  preference 
in  everything." 

"My  poor  Arthur,"  said   Elsie,  "and   I  loving  you  all 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  145 

this  time  so  dearly  !  You,  such  a  wise  man,  who  has  taken 
all  the  honors,  yet  does  not  know  how  to  distinguish  love 
from  friendship !  " 

Arthur  pressed  the  beautiful  hand  he  held  in  his.  "  Elsie," 
he  said,  "  do  you  see  the  dilemma  we  are  in  ?  Ronald  has 
been  brought  up  by  his  mother  to  believe  that  you  would 
one  day  be  his  wife." 

"  It  is  too  bad,"  said  Elsie,  "  and  I  pity  him  if  it  is  as 
you  imagine,  for  I  know  how  I  should  have  suffered,  Arthur, 
if  I  had  not  gained  your  love." 

"Then,  Elsie,"  said  Arthur,  "although  it  is  against  our 
natures,  we  must  dissemble  a  little  for  a  time,  and  not  pro- 
claim our  affection  to  the  world.  We  will  endeavor  to  find 
out  if  my  surmises  are  correct,  and  must  act  as  God  de- 
crees. When  Ronald  is  well  he  will  go  to  London,  and  in 
the  attractions  of  the  great  metropolis  let  us  hope  he  will 
form  some  other  attachment ;  meanwhile  we  must  wait  pa- 
tiently." 

"  Oh,  Arthur,"  said  Elsie,  "  I  was  in  hopes  we  could  pub- 
lish our  love  to  the  world  that  all  my  friends  could  con- 
gratulate me,  but  I  will  do  as  you  advise."  She  seated  her- 
self at  the  piano  and  sang  "Love's  Young  Dream"  with  a 
pathos  such  as  Arthur  had  never  heard  before. 

Never  were  two  lovers  happier,  and  Arthur  and  Elsie 
spent  the  afternoon  exchanging  confidences.  They  told 
each  other  all  their  doubts  and  fears  when  mutual  love  be- 
gan to  make  their  hearts  beat  wildly,  when  first  they  began 
to  lay  awake  and  think,  instead  of  sleeping  through  the  night. 

By  a  singular  coincidence  the  symptoms  were  much  the 
same  in  both  cases,  and  very  similar  to  the  experience  of 
others — an  experience  that  will  be  constantly  repeated  un- 
til the  last  day,  for  love  will  rule  the  world  until  eternity. 

And  what  a  beautiful  love  was  this  !  so  innocent  and 
pure.  Could  all  love  be  like  this  the  world  would  be  a  para- 
dise. The  trees  whispered  softly,  and  the  birds  sang  with 
joy  while  Elsie's  doves  circled  around  the  head's  of  the  lov- 
10 


146  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

ers  as  they  walked  across  the  lawn,  and  seated  themselves 
upon  the  summit  of  a  grassy  knoll.  Around  the  knoll  the 
ground  was  studded  with  flowers,  blossoms  from  the  azaleas 
floated  through  the  air  perfuming  all  space,  while  bees  and 
butterflies  sipped  honey  from  the  roses  and  lilies.  Seldom  in 
summer's  green  embellished  field  could  one  witness  a  bright- 
er scene — it  was  the  one  place  where  everything  breathed  of 
love,  and  there  sat  Arthur  and  Elsie  until  the  lengthening 
shadows  reminded  them  of  the  flight  of  time,  and  that  they 
were  forgetting  their  friend  who  lay  on  the  couch  of  pain. 

Arthur  was  the  first  to  remember  Ronald,  and  proposed 
to  Elsie  that  he  should  go  and  look  after  him.  Before  leav- 
ing he  told  of  the  plans  laid  out  for  him  by  his  father,  and 
that  when  Ronald  got  well  both  would  have  to  go  to  London. 

Elsie  was  somewhat  disappointed  at  the  thought  of  Ar- 
thur's leaving  her.  "  Oh,  Arthur,"  she  exclaimed,  "  after 
having  the  cup  of  joy  placed  to  my  lips,  it  is  cruel  to  snatch 
it  away  so  quickly  ;  but  it  will  be  some  time  before  you  go, 
and  I  must  make  the  best  of  it,  and  content  myself  with 
the  letters  you  write,  conveying  the  assurances  of  your  un- 
changing affection." 

At  the  edge  of  the  wood  they  parted,  waving  their  hand- 
kerchiefs to  each  other  until  Arthur  passed  from  sight. 

Elsie  then  went  to  her  room,  and  kneeling  down  thanked 
God  for  the  sweet  gift  of  Arthur's  love,  which  was  worth 
more  to  her  than  all  the  world  beside. 

When  Arthur  reached  Ronald's  bedside  he  found  the 
latter  awaiting  his  arrival  with  feverish  anxiety. 

"  Did  you  see  Elsie  ? "  he  inquired,  "  and  was  she  much 
grieved  at  my  misfortune  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Arthur,  "  she  was  greatly  distressed,  and 
it  was  all  I  could  do  to  console  her,  although  I  assured  her 
that  the  doctor  said  you  would  soon  be  about  again." 

"  Yes ;  the  doctor  says  its  merely  a  good  shaking  up,  but 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  pounded  by  a  trip-hammer,"  said 
Ronald.     Poor  Elsie,  I  know  how  she  feels,  and  that  she 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  147 

would  rather  it  had  been  herself.  Elsie  loves  me  as  I  love 
her,  and  if  I  had  been  fatally  injured  the  shock  would  have 
killed  her.  I  have  had  a  hundred  proofs  of  her  affection  ; 
don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Arthur  was  taken  quite  aback  ;  the  denouement  was 
coming  sooner  than  he  had  anticipated.  ''  Ronald,"  he 
said,  "you  should  not  excite  yourself  about  anything  in 
your  present  condition.  No  sister  could  love  a  brother 
more  than  Elsie  does  you,  as  was  shown  by  her  distress 
to-day." 

**  But,  my  dear  boy,  that  is  not  the  love  I  want  her  to  feel. 
I  look  forward  to  the  day  when  I  can  call  Elsie  wife." 

''Ronald,"  said  Arthur,  "you  have  been  brought  up  to 
regard  Elsie  as  a  sister,  and  unless  you  know  the  contrary, 
she  may  only  think  of  that  relationship.  A  girl  may  be  de- 
voted to  a  friend,  yet  a  stranger  may  step  in  and  she  give 
her  heart  to  him.  Elsie  has  never  associated  with  any  young 
men  excepting  ourselves  because  she  has  lived  in  seclusion, 
but  place  her  in  fashionable  circles  in  London,  and  she  might 
encounter  a  Prince  Golden  Hair  more  to  her  taste  than  her 
country  friends.     She  is  young  yet  to  be  thinking  of  lovers." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Ronald,  "  Elsie  has  been  a  woman  in  feel- 
ing for  some  time.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  Prince  Golden  Hair, 
for  he  was  merely  her  childish  ideal." 

The  conversation  had  become  very  distasteful  to  Ar- 
thur, whose  worst  apprehensions  were  realized.  Ronald, 
like  himself,  loved  Elsie. 

"This  is  all  wrong,  Ronald,"  he  said,  "for  your  excite- 
ment may  bring  on  a  fever,  and  then,  perhaps,  your  air-built 
castles  might  end  in  a  dangerous  illness.  Elsie  has,  no 
doubt,  her  own  ideas  on  the  subject  we  have  been  discuss- 
ing, and  will  marry  whom  she  pleases,  for  no  man  could  re- 
sist her  attractions.  We  must  do  all  we  can  to  help  her  to 
be  happy." 

Ronald  sighed,  and  admitted  the  correctness  of  this 
reasoning.      He    said   no  more,  and   in  a  little  while  was 


148  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

fast  asleep  and  dreaming  of  Elsie  seated  in  a  gold  carriage 
drawn  by  angels. 

When  Arthur  found  that  Ronald  was  sleeping  quietly  he 
went  home  and  was  warmly  greeted  by  his  mother,  who 
looked  at  him  inquiringly,  and  said :  "  Why,  my  son,  I  ex- 
pected to  see  you  with  a  sorrowful  countenance  after  your 
friend's  misfortune,  instead  of  which  your  eyes  are  lighted 
up  in  a  manner  I  have  never  seen  before,  and  I  could  almost 
imagine  a  halo  around  your  head." 

"  Dear  mother,"  said  Arthur,  "  you  read  me  like  a  book, 
and  I  can  not  conceal  my  feelings  even  if  I  wished  to  do  so. 
I  will  tell  you  everything,  and  am  sure  you  will  rejoice  at  my 
happiness." 

Arthur  then  informed  his  mother  of  what  had  taken  place 
between  him  and  Elsie,  and  the  unfortunate  turn  affairs  had 
taken  with  regard  to  Ronald.  "I  am  distressed  for  him," 
said  Arthur,  "for  I  fear  his  life  will  be  wrecked,  as  mine 
would  have  been  had  I  not  gained  Elsie's  love." 

Julia  was  moved  to  tears  by  Arthur's  confidence.  "  I 
have  always  hoped  for  this,"  she  said,  "and  the  evening  of 
my  life  will  be  cheered  by  witnessing  your  happiness  ;  at  the 
same  time  my  mind  is  oppressed  by  the  difficulties  thrown 
in  your  way  by  Ronald's  expectations.  I  knew  that  you 
both  loved  the  sweet  child.  Our  lives  have  not  been  happy 
ones  ;  let  us  pray  God  to  make  them  brighter  in  the  future." 

Arthur's  dreams  that  night  were  golden  ones,  but  he 
never  imagined  that  while  Elsie  and  himself  were  seated  on 
the  knoll  at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  two  malicious  eyes  were 
watching  him.  Some  twenty  yards  from  the  lovers'  trysting- 
place  was  a  little  hut,  hidden  among  the  vines,  where  the 
rector  had  formerly  been  accustomed  to  retire  for  the  pur- 
pose of  study.  Thither  Arthur's  implacable  enemy.  Bill 
Briggs,  had  chanced  to  wander,  and  from  that  ambush  had 
witnessed  all  that  passed  between  the  lovers. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  149 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

That  evening  when  her  father  came  home  Elsie  informed 
him  of  the  accident,  and  he,  knowing  the  relation  existing 
between  her  and  Ronald  from  childhood,  was  surprised  not 
to  see  Elsie  depressed,  but,  on  the  contrary,  with  a  joyous 
light  upon  her  face.  If  the  treasures  of  the  world  had  been 
poured  into  her  lap  she  could  not  have  exhibited  more  sat- 
isfaction. She  kissed  her  father  a  dozen  times,  hung  about 
him  as  if  she  would  like  to  communicate  some  very  happy 
news,  helped  him  off  with  his  overcoat,  tugged  up-stairs  with 
his  traveling  bag,  ran  out  and  made  him  a  milk  punch,  then 
kissed  him  again,  ran  her  fingers  over  the  piano  keys,  and 
altogether  acted  so  strangely  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Vernon  had 
to  consult  his  wits  to  find  out  what  was  the  meaning  of  it 
all.  What  he  noticed  particularly  was  the  look  of  ecstacy 
which  shone  in  Elsie's  face — under  the  circumstances  it  was 
to  him  unfathomable. 

"  Who  brought  you  the  news  of  Ronald's  accident,  El- 
sie? "  inquired  her  father. 

''  Arthur  did,"  was  the  answer,  and  to  save  her  life  she 
could  not  avoid  blushing  when  she  mentioned  the  name. 

The  rector  remarked  her  confusion.  "At  what  time 
did  Arthur  come }  "  he  inquired,  "  and  how  long  did  he  re- 
main ?  " 

"  Oh  !  some  time,"  said  Elsie,  blushing  more  and  more  ; 
"he  stayed  to  console  me,  for  I  was  very  much  grieved." 

"  Of  course,"  he  said  ;  "  you  naturally  would  be  at  such  a 
disaster.     But  when  did  Arthur  go  home  ? " 

Elsie  was  truth  itself,  but  there  is  a  sacredness  in  love 
matters  and  she  stammered  so  that  no  one  could  tell  what 
she  meant  to  say.  "  Well— perhaps— I  can't  say— but  his 
horse  threw  him  this  morning  and  he  came  here  at  ten  o'clock, 
and  he  was  bruised  very  much— and  he  went  away  in  the 
evening — and  there  were  no  bones  broken — and  he  described 


ISO 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


how  it  all  happened — and  the  doctor  said  he  would  pull 
through — and  he  was  coming  for  me  to  ride  with  Mrs.  Pent- 
land's  horse." 

The  rector  smiled.  "Well,  Elsie,"  he  said,  kissing  the 
confused  girl,  *'  you  do  credit  to  my  instruction.  After  five 
years'  hard  work  trying  to  teach  you  the  elements  of  EngUsh 
grammar,  you  can  not  construct  a  sentence  without  making 
mistakes.     What  has  happened,  Elsie  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  cried,  sobbing,  and  rushing  from  the 
apartment,  flew  to  her  room  and  locked  the  door.  "  Oh 
my  !  "  she  said,  looking  in  the  glass,  "  what  a  figure  I  have 
made  Of  myself !  If  I  had  stayed  any  longer  with  papa  he 
might  have  learned  my  secret,  and  I  would  not  have  him 
know  it  for  the  world." 

The  rector  was  a  man  of  the  world.  He  had  been  edu- 
cated at  Eton  and  Oxford,  and  there  is  very  little  that  a  man 
does  not  know  of  worldly  matters  after  leaving  these  insti- 
tutions and  spending  some  years  in  London  society.  He 
had  gone  through  the  experience  of  love  himself,  and  knew 
the  signs  ;  he  had  watched  these  young  people  for  years,  to 
see  what  direction  Elsie's  fancy  would  take,  and  did  not 
care  which  of  the  two  young  men  she  chose,  for  both  were 
eligible  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  Squire  Pentland  was 
**  well  to  do,"  and  Ronald  was  an  only  son.  Mr.  Merton 
was  a  millionaire,  though  engaged  in  trade,  and  his  was 
an  only  son  also.  The  father  was  not  desirable,  but  the 
son  and  his  mother  were,  and,  somehow  or  other,  Mr.  Ver- 
non's heart  went  out  to  Arthur,  and  it  delighted  him  to  see 
the  turn  matters  had  taken.  Though  Arthur  was  the  more 
conservative  of  the  two  young  men,  he  could  read  both  their 
hearts,  and  while  he  felt  so  pleased  he  shuddered  at  the 
storm  he  saw  in  the  distance  gathering  strength  and  coming 
nearer  every  day.  He  would  keep  his  eyes  open  and  watch, 
or  perhaps  Elsie  would  tell  him  herself. 

The  next  morning  after  his  visit  to  Ronald,  who  was 
much  better,  Arthur  proceeded  to  the  parsonage.     Elsie  was 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


i;r 


watching  for  him.  Running  to  meet  him,  putting  her  arm 
through  his,  and  clasping  one  hand  over  the  other,  she  looked 
up  into  his  face,  and  said  :  "  Dear  Arthur,  I  thought  you 
would  never  come."  He  looked  down  into  her  uplifted 
eyes  and  patted  her  hand. 

Lovers  are  something  like  the  ostrich,  who  when  pursued 
by  the  hunter  hides  his  head  in  the  sand  supposing  his  body 
will  not  be  seen.  So  it  was  with  these  two — they  forgot 
that  there  was  any  one  in  the  world  but  themselves,  and 
took  their  seat  on  the  mound  where  they  had  been  the 
day  before.  The  rector  sat  at  his  study  window  wonder- 
ing to  himself  if  there  ever  was  a  handsomer  couple.  A 
small  field-glass  lay  close  at  hand,  and  without  the  slightest 
intention  of  playing  the  spy,  or  intruding  on  their  sacred 
mystery,  he  took  a  long  look  at  them,  saying,  with  a  sigh  : 
''  The  same  old  story  !  '  Love's  young  dream.'  Love,  like 
history  repeats  itself.  I  shall  soon  lose  her.  May  the  gob- 
let from  which  they  drink  be  filled  with  the  water  of  life. 

May  no  maddening  draught  of  Hypocrene  be  hidden  in  the  bowl, 
Or  darkening  clouds  e'er  rush  between  two  souls  so  made  for  love." 

At  that  moment  Elsie  was  gazing  in  her  lover's  face  with 
a  trustful  look  that  is  only  born  of  love,  while  Arthur  was 
regarding  her  so  intensely  and  lovingly  as  to  be  oblivious 
to  all  the  world  besides. 

"  I  know  the  signs  too  well,"  said  the  rector  to  himself. 
"  How  often  have  my  own  lost  Miriam  and  I  sat  just  as  they 
are  sitting,  drinking  in  words  of  love,  as  the  flowers  the 
dews  of  heaven  !  That  was  a  loss  to  me  which  Heaven  can 
only  repay  by  granting  me  a  union  with  my  loved  one  in 
the  eternal  life  hereafter."  He  moved  away  from  the  win- 
dow. ''There  let  the  lovers  stay  and  enjoy  their  hallowed 
feelings  ;  it  is  sacrilege  to  look  upon  them  while  the  happy 
beings  are  thinking  that  they  are  the  only  two  people  in  the 
world  so  blessed." 

So  passed  the  day  as  did  the  day  before.     The  flowers, 


152  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

those  stars  of  earth,  illumined  the  ground  with  a  beauty- 
greater  than  the  lovers  had  ever  noticed  before.  The  birds 
sang  sweeter  than  ever,  and  flew  from  bough  to  bough  with 
notes  of  love.  The  doves  came  for  Elsie  to  feed  them,  and 
her  pet  dove,  resting  upon  Elsie's  shoulder,  pecked  at  Ar- 
thur's hand  and  fought  it  with  his  wings  when  it  dared  to 
touch  its  mistress.  "  Ah,"  said  Elsie,  ''  here  is  one  who 
loves  me  better  than  you  do,  and  will  fight  to  the  death  for 
me."  Arthur,  forgetting  that  there  were  eyes  in  the  world, 
took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  kissed  her.  The  dove 
flew  away  as  if  offended,  and  Bill  Briggs,  hid  in  the  adjacent 
thicket,  chuckled,  and  said  to  himself  :  **  That's  a  nail  in  yer 
coffing  ;  if  it  ain't  then  I'll  be  blowed  !  " 

The  lovers  came  to  one  conclusion  that  day.  Arthur 
told  Elsie  that  he  had  never  kept  a  secret  from  his  mother 
in  his  life,  and  confessed  that  he  had  informed  her  of  their 
love  notwithstanding  their  agreement  to  tell  no  one.  *'  Dar- 
ling," he  said,  *'it  is  but  right  that  I  should  ask  your  father's 
consent ;  I  do  not  like  secrecy,  much  less  with  one  who  loves 
you  so  well.  I  shall  have  to  go  soon  and  look  after  Ronald  ; 
let  us  go  to  Mr.  Vernon  at  once." 

Elsie  was  delighted,  for  she  longed  to  impart  to  her 
father  the  joy  she  knew  he  would  feel  at  her  happiness,  so 
they  walked  to  the  house  and  went  to  the  library,  where  the 
rector  was  sitting  in  a  "brown  study."  Elsie  rushed  to 
him  and  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

The  rector  looked  up  smiling,  and  said  :  "  Ah,  ingrate, 
you  have  come  to  confess.  I  should  have  been  displeased  if 
you  had  tried  to  keep  the  secret  of  your  happiness  from  me." 

"  No,"  said  Elsie,  "  we  have  come  to  ask  your  consent 
and  your  blessing.  We  know  that  you  will  give  both,  as 
you  loved  my  dear  mother  so  well  that  you  can  feel  for  us." 

The  rector  rose  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  placed  his 
hands  upon  his  daughter's  head  :  "  Bless  you,  my  child,  now 
and  forever  !  Here  is  my  hand,  Arthur,  as  a  token  of  my 
love.     It  is  just  as  I  could  have  v/ished,  and  I  hope,  Elsie, 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  153 

your  mother  will  look  down  from  heaven  and  bless  you 
both."  Then  he  walked  out  into  the  open  air  to  conceal  his 
feelings. 

"Now,  Elsie,"  said  Arthur,  "  I  must  go.  Ronald  will  be 
expecting  me."  They  went  out  together,  happier  in  the 
knowleds^e  that  the  rector  shared  their  secret  with  them  and 
that  he  sanctioned  their  engagement.  Elsie  accompanied 
Arthur  into  the  woods  within  a  short  distance  of  the  hut, 
and  there  they  parted  as  lovers  part,  while  the  wretch,  Bill 
Briggs,  from  the  hut  saw  all  that  passed  between  them,  ex- 
claiming, as  he  left  his  concealment :  "  Mr.  Arthur,  I'll  make 
yer  life  a  'ell  to  yer,  or  me  name  isn't  Bill  Briggs."  He  then 
sneaked  off  to  his  duties. 

Arthur  went  straight  to  Ronald,  who  was  feverish  and 
restless,  and  wandered  in  his  talk  a  good  deal  about  Elsie, 
insisting  she  loved  him  and  that  she  only  waited  for  him  to 
declare  himself,  when  she  wmild  accept  him  as  her  lover. 
This  was  gal?  and  wormwood  to  Arthur,  who  knew  the  con- 
trary, and  already  feelings  of  antagonism  were  in  his  breast 
against  his  friend,  who  seemed  too  ready  to  claim  what  was 
not  his  own  and  never  would  be.  He  longed  to  tell  Ron- 
ald of  his  engagement  with  Elsie,  but  from  prudential  rea- 
sons forebore  to  do  so. 

Ronald  begged  Arthur  to  request  Elsie  to  come  and  see 
him  as  soon  as  possible,  for  he  said  the  sight  of  her  sweet 
face  would  restore  him  to  health.  "You  know,  Arthur,  I 
was  sure  I  was  dying,  and  the  last  thing  I  thought  of  v/as 
Elsie,  and  how  she  would  grieve  for  me,  poor  child.  But, 
Arthur,  I  will  be  up  and  dressed  to-morrow  by  noon  ;  do 
bring  her  to  see  me."  Arthur  promised,  and  after  staying 
with  Ronald  a  couple  of  hours,  ended  his  day  with  his 
mother,  who  could  always  sympathize  with  his  feelings. 
The  next  day  at  noon  Elsie  called  with  Arthur,  and  they 
went  together  to  Ronald's  room,  where  they  found  him 
dressed,  but  lying  on  the  bed. 

When   Elsie   entered   he   tried   to  rise,  but   could  not. 


154  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Elsie,"  he  said,  "I  am  dreadfully  bruised, 
and  can  not  stand  to  greet  you,  but  sit  beside  me  and  let 
me  just  look  at  you."  She  sat  down  and  expressed  her 
great  regret  at  the  accident  in  proper  terms.  He  took  her 
hand,  and  said  :  "  Let  me  hold  your  hand,  Elsie  ;  it  will 
seem  then  as  if  you  could  not  get  away  from  me.  You 
would  have  missed  me,  Elsie,  if  I  had  died,  would  you 
not  ?  " 

"Of  course,  Ronald,"  she  replied,  "what  a  foolish  ques- 
tion !  To  lose  you  would  be  dreadful  to  all  of  us.  God 
grant  that  you  may  live  many  years  to  bless  your  parents  !  " 

"  And  you,  Elsie,  and  you  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  excitedly. 

"  Why  to  me,  also,  but  you  will  soon  be  well,  and  I  hope 
to  see  you  at  the  rectory.  Papa  sends  his  kindest  wishes 
and  will  be  over  to  see  you  to-morrow." 

This  was  the  most  Elsie  could  bring  herself  to  say,  for 
she  belonged  now  to  Arthur,  and  could  not  be  disloyal  to 
him  by  act  or  word.  She  read  Ronald's  feelings  at  a  glance, 
and  was  determined  to  say  or  do  nothing  on  which  he  could 
hang  a  hope,  Ronald  looked  disappointed,  for  he  expected 
that  Elsie  would  exhibit  some  demonstration  on  which  he 
could  dilate  when  she  departed.  He  kept  her  hand  in  his 
and  even  raised  it  to  his  lips,  but  she  immediately  withdrew 
it  and  looked  at  Arthur  as  if  to  say,  "  I  could  not  help  it." 
She  did  not  think  that  she  had  a  right  to  let  any  one  but 
him  touch  her  hand  except  in  the  most  orthodox  way. 

Mrs.  Pentland  came  in,  and  warmly  embraced  Elsie.  The 
fond  parent  spoke  of  her  son's  accident,  and  the  party  sat  an 
hour,  during  which  time  Ronald  kept  his  eyes  on  Elsie  and 
could  see  no  one  else.  He  constantly  called  her  pet  names 
which  was  extremely  disagreeable  to  Arthur  and  Elsie,  who 
at  length  took  their  leave,  Elsie  promising  to  come  again. 
She  shook  hands  with  Ronald,  but  not  content  with  that  he 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  covered  it  with  kisses.  She 
snatched  it  away,  and  turning  abruptly  left  the  room. 

"  I  shall  go  there  no  more,  Arthur,  dear,"  said  she,  "  for 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 55 

that  does  not  please  me.     You  are  the  only  one  who  has  a 
right  to  kiss  my  hand,  and  it  is  mean  in  Ronald  to  do  it." 

*'  Never  mind,  darling,"  said  her  lover  ;  **  the  best  way  is 
to  go  there  no  more.  It  is  not  at  all  necessary  as  Ronald  is 
on  the  road  to  a  rapid  recovery." 

In  ten  days  Ronald  was  down-stairs  and  wandering  out 
on  the  lawn  w^here  he  rested  in  a  summer-house  to  enjoy 
the  pure  air  and  look  out  on  the  Medway.  He  had  been 
there  a  little  while  indulging  in  delightful  reveries  of  his 
future  life  with  Elsie,  v/hen  Bill  Briggs  came  to  the  door  of 
the  summer-house  and  accosted  him  with:  "I  'ope  yer  bet- 
ter, Mr.  Ronald,  hand  hit's  time  ye  were,  or  the  'awkwill  fly 
away  with  yer  pet  dove." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Briggs  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  I 
do  not  understand.  I'm  pretty  well,  and  yet  I'm  not  well, 
for  my  limbs  are  still  quite  stiff.  What  did  that  remark 
mean  .?  Don't  speak  to  me  in  innuendoes  ;  give  me  plain 
English  and  be  done  with  it." 

"  Well,  yer  know,  Mr.  Ronald,  I  hain't  bin  heducated  at 
H'oxfort,  hand  can't  be  hexpected  to  speak  'igh  flown,  but 
that  as  I've  got  ter  tell  ye  will  make  ye  mad.  Yer  lamb  is 
in  the  'ands  of  the  wolf." 

*'  Cease  your  nonsense,  Briggs,  and  tell  me  in  a  few  words 
what  you  have  to  say.  If  you  bother  me  much  longer  I 
will  break  some  of  your  bones." 

"  Hand  it's  because  ye  can't  get  up  hand  break  my  bones 
that  I  take  the  hopportunity  to  tell  ye  what'll  make  ye  mad 
as  a  March  'are.  I  know  ye'd  brain  me  if  ye  could  on  first 
'earin'  of  it,  hand  then  regret  hit.  Hit's  a  story  as  would 
make  any  gent  mad,  hand  ye  needn't  'ear  hit  less  ye  likes  ter." 

"  Well,  tell  it  then,"  said  Ronald,  "or  get  along  with  you." 

"Well,  Mr.  Ronald,  I  was  once  standing  below  the 
squire's  back  porch  a-plasterin'  one  of  the  huprights,  hand 
I  'card  the  squire  hand  Mrs.  Pentland  talking  about  ye  hand 
that  beautiful  creature  Miss  Elsie  Vernon.  She  was  honly 
twelve  years  old  then,  hand  as  beautiful  as  a  young  mackerel, 


156  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

hand  I  'card  the  squire  hand  the  lady  talkin'  'bout  ye  both, 
hand  *e  says  :  'I'll  build  them  a  'ouse  hon  yon  knoll, near 
the  three  oaks,  hand  they  hand  their  children  can  live  'ere 
when  we're  gone.'  Hand  that's  'ow  I  knowed  ye  was  in- 
tended fer  heach  bother." 

''  Of  course,"  said  Ronald  ;  '*  but  what  is  that  to  you  ? 
You  had  better  not  be  playing  eavesdropper." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Ronald,  hit's  by  playin'  heavesdropper  that  I 
sarves  my  friends,  hand  ses  I  ter  myself,  hif  so  be  as  the 
squire's  goin'  ter  build  Mr.  Ronald  and  Miss  Elsie  a  'ouse 
ter  live  hin  when  they're  married,  what  business  'as  Mr. 
Arthur  to  be  settin'  with  'er  hin  the  woods  hall  day  long 
hand  kissin'  'er  hevery  minute  }  " 

Ronald  tried  to  rise  from  the  bench,  but  was  not  strong 
enough.  "  You  lie,  you  scoundrel !  "  he  cried,  ''  Recall  that, 
or  I'll  kill  you.  She  would  never  kiss  any  man,"  and  his 
face  turned  pale  from  anger. 

''  Well,  per'aps  I  was  mistaken,  sir,  per'aps  hit  was  straw- 
berries hand  cream  they  was  takin'  together,  but  they 
seemed  awful  fond  of  hit,  hand  hit  looked  very  much  like 
what  Molly  Stark  hand  me  does  when  we're  wanderin'  'round 
together." 

Ronald  was  furious  with  passion.  The  idea  of  Elsie's 
having  kissed  any  one,  even  Arthur,  had  never  entered  his 
head.  He  considered  it  a  boon  just  to  kiss  her  hand,  which, 
indeed,  he  thought  his  right,  for  he  considered  her  as  good 
as  engaged  to  him,  but  to  think  that  while  he  had  been 
lying  on  a  bed  of  pain  his  best  friend  and  the  woman  he 
loved  had  been  indulging  themselves  in  that  way  was  more 
than  human  nature  could  bear.  For  some  time  he  could 
not  speak,  but,  at  last,  said  :  "  Briggs,  I  should  never  have 
heard  this  or  I  should  have  heard  more — all  that  you  know. 
If  I  find  that  you  have  been  lying  to  me  I  will  punish  you 
so  that  you  will  wish  you  had  never  been  born.  Now  tell  me 
all  you  know  about  it." 

"  Mr.  Ronald,"  said  Briggs,  "  what  hobject  can  I  'ave  hin 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 57 

givin'  false  hevidence,  hand  what  has  I  got  to  fear  from  ye  ? 
Hain't  I  a  free  Briton  ?  Ye  can't  send  me  to  jail  for  lookin' 
at  a  man  a-kissin'  of  a  woman,  can  ye  ?  " 

*'  Silence,  you  scoundrel,"  said  Ronald  in  his  wrath,  "you 
have  an  object  in  all  this.  Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten 
the  time  when  Mr.  xlrthur  thrashed  you  within  an  inch  of 
your  life  ? " 

"  I  remember,"  said  Briggs.  "  It  was  the  time  when  ye 
might  'ave  pitched  in  hand  ye  didn't.  But,  Lor'  bless  yer 
soul,  I'm  not  one  of  that  sort.  What  was  there  to  prevent 
me,  many's  the  time,  from  slippin'  a  load  of  shot  into  'im 
when  I  was  hout  with  ye  both,  hand  me  a-beatin'  the  bush.? 
Who'd  a  knowed  it  wasn't  han  haccident  ?  'E  stole  yer 
laurels  then,  hand  now  'e's  a-stealin'  yer  strawberries  hand 
cream.  But  if  seein's  believin',  Mr.  Ronald,  just  ye  come 
with  me  to  the  'ut  hin  Parson  Vernon's  wood.  The  vines 
run  'round  the  'ouse  hin  such  a  tangle  that  a  mouse  can 
scarcely  creep  through  *em,  hand  there  ye  can  set  hand  see 
hall  that's  goin'  on  with  yer  girl.  Hand  that's  hall  I've  got 
to  say  about  hit." 

'*  When  can  I  go  there  ? "  he  inquired  in  a  hoarse 
voice. 

"To-morrer,"  said  Briggs  ;  "  yer  too  excited  to  go  there 
to-day,  for  hit's  a  bit  of  a  w^alk.  Ye'll  be  stronger,  too,  then, 
and  ye  can  think  over  the  matter ;  take  yer  points,  and  see 
for  yerself.  But  hif  ye'll  be  guided  by  me,  ye'll  get  yer  lam' 
back  again  hand  'ave  all  yer  strawberries  hand  cream  ter 
yerself.  We'll  be  to  the  spot  at  harf-past  three,  'cause  they 
comes  from  the  'ouse  'bout  four,  hafter  a  feedin'  the  doves — 
they  learns  lessons  from  'em  in  billin'  hand  cooin'." 

"  If  you  exasperate  me  by  talking  that  way  again,"  said 
Ronald,  "  I  will  knock  you  down." 

*' Yes,  sir,"  he  replied,  "hand  miss  yer  chance  of  seein' 
the  sights  to-morrer  by  a  strainin'  yer  wrists  or  legs.  No, 
no,  Mr.  Ronald,  leave  things  to  me  and  listen  to  what  I  say, 
hand  ye'll  be  wiser  then  than  ye  are  to-day,     I'll  be  'ere  for 


158  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

ye  at  three,  hand  don't  ye  forget  that  hit's  yer  hown  rights 
ye're  maintainin'." 

With  that  they  parted,  Briggs  to  look  after  his  game  and 
Ronald  to  sit  and  brood  until  late  in  the  day  over  what  he 
considered  his  wrongs.  He  did  not  even  notice  the  beautiful 
weather  and  white  sails  of  the  small  craft  as  they  skimmed 
over  the  Medway,  nor  the  flowers  at  his  feet  with  their  vari- 
egated colors.  Three  or  four  deer  moved  gradually  up  to 
the  place  where  he  sat  and  put  out  their  tongues  for  salt, 
but  like  everything  else  they  were  unheeded.  He  saw 
nothing  but  dark  clouds  wherever  he  looked,  and  even  when 
the  declining  rays  covered  the  floor  he  wrapped  his  cloak 
closer  around  him  and  slowly  and  painfully  walked  to  the 
house. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


The  next  day  at  the  appointed  hour  Bill  Briggs  found 
Ronald  at  the  summer-house  anxious  to  set  out.  Ronald 
was  moody  and  irritable  :  "  Remember,  Briggs,"  he  said, 
"  if  you  are  deceiving  me,  you  shall  suffer  for  it." 

"  Ye  ain't  the  only  one  as  has  'ad  trouble  in  this  world," 
said  Briggs.  "  I  onst  'ad  a  case  just  like  yourn,  honly  a 
little  more  so.  I  'ad  my  girl,  Molly  Stark,  hand  hanother 
feller,  Jim  Stokes,  got  'er  away  from  me.  'E  got  six  indict- 
ments agin  'im  for  stealin'  hand  was  sent  to  Haustralia, 
hand  I  got  my  girl  back  agin.  She  piped  a  little  at  first, 
but  she's  as  luvin'  now  as  a  kitten  is  to  a  'ot  brick,  hand  I 
get  as  much  strawberries  and  cream  as  Mr.  Arthur  Merton's 

gettin'  now." 

"  Silence  your  vulgar  tongue,"  shouted  Ronald.  "  What 
do  I  care  what  happened  to  you  and  your  Molly  Stark  ? 
I'll  kill  the  man  that  takes  from  me  what  is  mine.  I  will 
not  wait  for  him  to  go  to  Australia." 

"Then,  Mr.  Ronald,"  said  Briggs,  ''if  there's  to  be  any 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  159 

killin'  done  I  don't  go  with  you.  I  don't  want  my  neck 
stretched,  no  how  you  can  fix  it.  Do  you  know  what  the 
fox  does  when  'e  wants  to  get  a  lam'  ?  'E  rolls  himself  up 
in  wool,  hand  when  the  lam'  comes  along  'e  grabs  hit. 
That's  what  yer  to  do,  but  if  ye  kills  any  one  ye  hangs. 
Now,  sir,  just  ye  mind  me,  hand  ye'll  get  yer  lam'  back." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Ronald,  "let's  move  on.  I  will  act 
according  to  circumstances,  but  if  you  have  deceived  me 
and  raised  this  hell  in  my  bosom  to  injure  an  innocent 
girl  and  my  best  friend,  I  will  kill  you  as  sure  as  you  are 
born." 

"If  that's  all,"  said  Briggs,  "I'll  live  a  thousand  year. 
Come  on,  Mr.  Ronald,  hand  I'll  put  you  through,"  and  taking 
the  young  man  by  the  arm  he  led  him  away. 

It  was  a  long  and  tedious  way  to  the  hut,  and  Ronald 
was  nearly  exhausted  when  he  arrived  at  the  place,  where 
he  was  completely  hidden  in  tangled  vines  so  that  he  could 
see  and  not  be  seen.  At  four  o'clock  Briggs  nudged  him 
with  his  elbow.  "  There  comes  the  turkle  doves,"  he  said, 
"  hand  now  ye'll  see  something  as  is  worth  lookin'  at,  none 
of  yer  barn  theatres,  but  a  regular  London  opera.  Just 
hobserve  'em,"  and  the  villain's  face  gleamed  with  triumph 
as  he  thought  of  the  revenge  he  was  about  to  secure  for 
himself  and  the  pain  he  was  going  to  inflict  upon  Ronald. 

The  latter  muttered  and  execrated  as  the  two  lovers 
came  across  the  lawn  toward  the  knoll,  Elsie  hanging  on 
Arthur's  arm  and  gazing  lovingly  into  his  face  while  he 
looked  into  her  eyes  as  if  he  would  penetrate  the  depths  of 
her  soul.  They  came  slowly,  as  if  loath  to  change  their 
positions  even  for  a  moment.  She  carried  a  small  basket 
with  a  beautiful  bouquet.  They  reached  the  knoll,  and 
there  sat  talking  for  half  an  hour,  Elsie  looking  into  her 
lover's  eyes  as  if  there  were  not  another  pair  in  the  world. 
Presently  she  made  a  signal  and  her  doves  flew  from  the 
dovecote  and  settled  at  her  feet  to  receive  their  food,  which 
she  gave    them    from  the  basket,  and    the   little    creatures 


l6o  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

trampled  over  each  other  to  get  a  fair  share,  causing  great 
amusement  to  the  lovers. 

The  pet  dove  which  Elsie  distinguished  above  all  the 
rest  with  her  affection  flew  to  her  lap,  where  it  sat  picking 
at  Arthur  whenever  he  took  one  of  Elsie's  hands  in  his,  and 
when  he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  the  dove  flew  at 
him  and  struck  him  with  its  wings.  "  See  there,"  said 
Briggs,  "  even  the  dove  fights  for  ye.  Them  dumb  creat- 
ures know  as  much  as  wimin-folks,  hand  can  tell  when  any 
advantages  are  taken  of  other  people's  rights.  Blow  me  if 
'e  hain't  kissin'  'er  right  in  the  open  ! " 

At  this  Ronald  tried  to  rise  while  the  perspiration  ran 
down  his  face,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  was  going  to  faint. 
*'  Keep  up,  sir,"  said  Briggs,  *' '  faint  'eart  never  won  fair 
lady  '  ;  if  ye  gives  up  at  this  time  ye'U  never  get  yer  own." 

Ronald  was  dumbfounded.  The  two  lovers  seemed  to 
have  reached  a  point  far  beyond  anything  he  hoped  to  at- 
tain, for  there  was  a  look  of  affection  in  Elsie's  eyes  when 
she  gazed  into  Arthur's  face  that  nothing  but  death  could 
efface.  Ronald's  first  thought  was  to  rush  upon  Arthur 
and  kill  him  before  Elsie's  eyes,  but  he  soon  reflected  that 
such  a  course  would  render  him  hateful  to  her  as  would 
be  the  case  if  he  attempted  to  injure  Arthur.  Ronald  had 
changed  much  in  the  last  two  days.  His  passion  had  quite 
unsettled  his  reason,  and  he  even  listened  to  the  specious 
arguments  of  Briggs  in  favor  of  removing  Arthur  in  order 
to  recover  Elsie  for  himself.  The  time  was  when  he  would 
have  scorned  such  companionship  and  punished  Briggs  for 
daring  to  recommend  a  dishonorable  course. 

"  Ye  know,"  said  Briggs,  "  this  air  an  angel  'e's  a-takin* 
from  yer.  There  ain't  two  of  a  like  hin  the  world,  hand 
none  exactly  'er.  'E's  just  like  a  weasel  as  goes  into  a 
warren  hand  picks  out  the  pet  rabbit.  Ye  can't  shoot  the 
weasel  as  'e's  too  sly  hand  quick  for  ye,  hand  the  shot 
might  fly  back  on  ye,  but  ye  can  set  traps  for  'im,  traps 
with  jaws  that'll  cut  hand  wound   'im,  make  'im  go  through 


ARTHUR  MERTON,  l6i 

life  with  a  leg  or  two  or  an  eye  the  less,  hand  'e  wouldn't 
be  so  fond  of  goin'  after  rabbits.  Do  you  see,  Mr. 
Ronald  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Ronald  "you  would  have  me  smother  my 
grief  and  put  on  a  smiling  face,  take  Mr.  Arthur's  hand 
when  I  meet  him,  and  smile  on  her  when  she  is  with  him, 
and  even  officiate  as  best  man  at  the  wedding  ceremony. 
That  is,  'smile  and  smile  and  be  a  villain.'  " 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Briggs,  "  somethin'  like  that,  only  a 
little  more  so,  hand  if  ye  honly  does  as  I  tell  yer,  ye'll  'ave 
'er  in  two  year,  if  not  sooner  even.  Ye  go  ter  Lunnon  ;  I'll 
go  with  yer,  hand  though  I  hain't  been  ter  Hoxford  hand 
Cambridge,  nor  them  other  places  where  they  prove  that 
twice  two's  four  by  'igh  science,  I'll  show  ye  'ow  to  be  as 
cunnin'  as  a  fox  hand  as  dangerous  as  a  porcupine  with  hall 
'is  quills  on  end.  But  they're  goin'  now.  She'll  go  a  little 
way  into  the  woods  with  'im,  hand  then — strawberries  hand 
cream.  Better  not  look  at  this  pictur',  Mr.  Ronald,  hit  will 
honly  aggravate  ye,  hand  ye  might  think  a  blunderbuss  'ad 
gone  off." 

"  I'll  see  it  all,  if  it  kills  me,"  said  Ronald,  and  he  looked 
at  the  lovers  as  they  came  toward  the  hut.  There  they 
stopped,  supposing  that  only  the  angels  in  heaven  were 
looking  down  at  their  pure  and  innocent  love.  Instead  of 
that,  two  pairs  of  mortal  eyes  were  watching  their  every 
movement,  incited  by  wicked  motives — Briggs,  by  hatred 
for  the  man  who  had  once  thrashed  him  ;  Ronald,  by  that 
desire  to  slay  his  rival  which  many  a  man  feels  who  has 
had  his  loved  one  taken  from  him.  The  latter  had  gone 
through  so  much  that  day  that  he  had  almost  lost  his 
reason,  and  under  the  tuition  of  Briggs  was  ready  to  do 
anything.  Had  a  gun  been  placed  in  his  hands  and  he  had 
been  told  to  shoot  Arthur  on  the  spot,  he  would  have  done 
so.  Briggs  had  the  entire  control  of  his  mind,  but,  fortu- 
nately, so  wielded  his  power  that  there  was  no  murderous 
results, 

11 


1 62  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

Elsie  and  Arthur  stopped  close  to  the  hut.  "  Good-by, 
darling,"  he  said,  "  till  to-morrow,  or  perhaps  this  evening, 
but  farewell  till  we  meet  again,  and  may  angels  watch  over 
and  protect  you  !  "  He  kissed  her  lips  as  a  brother  might 
have  done.  "  Now,  run  home,"  he  said ;  *'  I  will  watch  until 
you  are  in  the  house." 

"  Here,  Arthur  dear,"  she  said,  "  don't  forget  the  bouquet 
for  Ronald,  with  my  affection.  I  am  so  delighted  that  he  is 
improving." 

When  they  were  out  of  sight  Ronald  remarked  to  Briggs  : 
"  You  lied  to  me  about  the  great  exhibition  of  love  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  stated  to  me  in  a  very  vulgar  manner  what 
these  were.  Although  I  see  for  myself  that  he  is  engaged  to 
her,  I  have  witnessed  none  of  the  nauseous  spectacles  you 
described." 

" '  Every  one  to  their  taste,'  as  the  cat  said  when  she  saw 
the  dog  kiss  the  monkey,"  said  Briggs.  "  It's  true  'e  warn't 
slobberin'  over  'er  hall  the  time,  but  if  I'd  a  seen  a  feller  slob- 
berin'  that  much  over  Molly  Stark,  I'd  punch  'is  'ead.  Per- 
haps ye're  not  as  particular  as  I  be,  hand  I'm  afraid  yer  eye- 
sight ain't  good,  but  puttin'  'is  arm  'round  yer  girl's  waist 
hand  squeezin'  'er  hand  lookin'  down  into  'er  eyes  all  the 
time  wouldn't  suit  me." 

*' Silence,  you  brute,"  yelled  Ronald,  **or  I'll  murder 
you.  You  exasperate  me  so  that  I  do  not  know  what  I  am 
about." 

''  Yes,  Mr.  Ronald,  that's  what's  the  matter.  Yer  sick 
hand  nervous  hand  not  yourself.  What  ye've  seen  has  upset 
ye,  hand  ye  must  go  'ome  hand  sleep  on  hit.  This  is  a  case 
where  ye'll  want  hall  yer  wits  about  ye.  Ye  must  not  let  on 
that  anything's  disturbin'  ye.  I  promise  ye  that  in  two 
year  ye'll  'ave  it  all  yer  own  way,  hand  marry  the  girl  of  yer 
'eart." 

"Come,"  said  Ronald,  "and  don't  talk  to  me  any  more 
about  this."  But  on  the  way  home  Briggs  plied  him  ingen- 
iously with  food  for  consideration,  and  by  the  time  Ronald 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


163 


reached  his  room,  he  was  ready  to  follow  the  villain  wher- 
ever he  might  be  disposed  to  lead.  Briggs  was,  although  an 
ignorant  person,  shrewd  and  unscrupulous.  Every  word  he 
uttered  had  its  effect  on  his  auditor,  and  was  treasured  in 
his  heart.  The  man  he  had  loved  so  much  was  now  re- 
garded as  his  bitterest  enemy,  and  the  once  despised  rustic 
he  took  to  his  bosom  as  his  adviser.  Poor  youth,  in  a  few 
days  he  had  fallen  very  low  and  selected  a  counselor,  with- 
out reflecting  whither  he  would  lead  him  ;  but  love  is  a  pas- 
sion that  overrules  the  reason.  Friendship  is  obliterated 
when  it  interferes  with  what  a  man  considers  his  rights  in  a 
woman's  affections,  thoughs  he  may  love  another.  It  is  a  pas- 
sion that  carries  in  its  train  envy,  hatred,  and  malice.  It  leads 
to  the  sacrifice  of  honor  and  aggravates  revenge.  It  shrinks 
from  no  crime,  and  often  ends  in  destruction.  There  is  no 
philosophy  in  the  true  passion  of  love,  and  no  man  reasons 
against  it.  All  so  possessed  will  sleep,  perhaps,  with  fitful 
dreams,  and  think,  forsooth,  in  sleep  they  have  cured  their 
passion,  but  when  they  wake,  the  gnawing  pain  springs  to 
their  heart,  and  wakes  the  wildest  emotions  in  the  breast. 
When  in  such  moods  man  will  snatch  the  murderous  knife, 
and  deal  death  to  whomsoever  stands  in  his  way. 

Ronald  retired  that  night  with  just  such  feelings.  He 
would  win  Elsie,  no  matter  what  the  cost,  and  he  would  sac- 
rifice his  life  and  honor,  if  he  could  only  be  revenged  on  the 
once  dear  friend,  who  now  stood  in  the  way  of  his  happiness. 
He  saw  that  there  was  but  one  way  to  reach  the  desired  end, 
and  that  was  "to  smile  and  smile  and  be  a  villain,"  and  not 
to  let  any  one  know  that  he  had  a  disappointment.  He 
would  wear  a  bright  face,  be  strong  in  his  professions  of 
friendship  to  Arthur,  nurse  a  desire  for  revenge,  and  "  assume 
a  virtue  if  he  had  it  not."  He  forgot  how  he  and  Arthur 
had  played  together  in  childhood,  how  they  had  striven  to 
carry  off  all  honors  at  school  and  the  university,  how  they 
had  vied  with  each  other  in  a  friendly  way  in  field  sports, 
and  how  they  had  waited  on  Elsie  for  years  without  one 


164  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

sign  of  jealousy.  Now  all  this  brotherly  feeling  was  scat- 
tered to  the  winds — the  little  god  of  love  had  come  between 
them. 

The  possessor  of  Elsie's  love  desired  nothing  but  good  to 
mankind,  and  would  have  given  away  all  he  owned.  All  he 
desired  to  hold  was  Elsie's  love — that  sufficed  for  him  ;  while 
Ronald,  in  his  heart,  was  at  war  with  all  the  world.  Revenge, 
hate,  malice,  and  every  vindictive  feeling,  were  tugging  at  his 
heart,  and  he  desired  full  satisfaction  for  his  wrongs^  if  it 
cost  him  his  life.  He  had  conferences  with  Bill  Briggs 
every  day,  and  each  meeting  only  put  him  the  more  under 
the  influence  of  this  vulgar  villain.  Ronald  lost  his  kindly 
expression,  became  moody  and  discontented,  although  he 
tried  his  best  to  look  cheerful,  and  when  with  Arthur  en- 
deavored to  act  as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  change  their 
relations. 

Ronald  recovered,  and  the  time  came  for  him  to  go  to 
London  and  take  his  place  in  the  banking-house  of  Emer- 
son &  Brothers.  To  strengthen  his  determination,  he  went 
the  day  before  his  departure,  and  witnessed  one  of  the  custom- 
ary partings  between  Arthur  and  Elsie.  It  almost  set  him 
wild,  and  he  would  have  shot  Arthur  on  the  spot,  but  Bill 
Briggs  was  too  wary  for  that.  He  would  have  no  arms  of 
any  kind,  not  even  a  walking-stick.  If  there  was  inde- 
cision in  Ronald's  mind  up  to  this  time  as  to  how  to  act,  it 
all  vanished  on  this  occasion,  and  he  swore  the  deadliest 
revenge.  He  would  sink  the  best  feelings  of  his  heart  to 
carry  out  that  revenge,  no  matter  who  was  hurt. 

The  next  day  he  departed  for  London,  Mr.  Pentland 
sorely  puzzled,  but  attributing  his  moody  behavior  to  his  fall 
from  his  horse.  Arthur  and  his  mother  had  previously  es- 
tablished themselves  in  comfortable  quarters  in  Cavendish 
Square,  with  all  the  elegancies  of  life  about  them.  This 
was  the  happiest  period  of  Julia's  existence,  for  now  she 
could  have  Arthur  all  to  herself  and  be  free  from  the  man 
whom  she  detested. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  165 

Arthur  and  Elsie  parted  as  if  they  were  going  to  separate 
for  years,  for  although  he  assured  her  that  he  would  come 
down  from  London  every  fortnight,  it  did  not  console  her. 
She  had  a  presentiment  that  something  was  going  to  happen, 
and  that  she  should  never  see  him  again,  but  why  she  should 
^  have  such  gloomy  forebodings  she  could  not  tell.  They 
spent  the  whole  day  together  (the  day  before  they  sepa- 
rated), and  when  they  parted  that  night  at  ten  o'clock,  Elsie 
clung  to  him  as  if  he  were  going  away  forever.  Arthur  was 
distressed  to  see  her  grief,  but  after  reasoning  with  her  for 
a  time  she  quieted  down,  and  he  was  enabled  to  bid  her 
good-by  amid  tears  and  sighs  such  as  lovers  only  know. 
They  felt  how  dear  they  were  to  each  other  and  how  hard 
it  was  to  live  apart. 

Life  is  not  a  placid  stream,  but  bitter  as  their  lives  may 
sometimes  be  to  lovers,  it  is  only  that  they  may  the  greater 
enjoy  the  fruition  of  their  hopes.  If  life  were  all  pleasure 
we  could  not  enjoy  it  as  much. 

For  as  the  goblet  passes  round 
With  fennel  it  is  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  well  imbrowned, 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned. 

Ronald  did  not  leave  until  several  days  after  Arthur's 
departure.  He  determined  that  he  would  see  Elsie  alone, 
and,  if  it  killed  him,  learn  the  worst  from  her  own  lips.  She 
should  at  least  know  how  he  loved  her  and  that  she  had 
wrecked  his  life.  If  his  interview  had  no  other  good  effect 
it  would  excite  her  interest  in  himself,  for  a  woman  always 
feels  kindly  toward  the  man  who  loves  her,  although  she 
may  not  be  able  to  return  it,  and  he  had  always  heard  that 
"pity  was  akin  to  love."  She  could  not  entirely  lose  her 
old  affection  for  him,  he  thought,  and  a  woman's  heart  di- 
vided between  two  men  could  not  be  depended  upon  to 
cling  to  one  of  them  altogether.  Something  might  happen 
in  his  favor,  and  in  time  he  might  win  her  yet.     He  felt  that 


1 66  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

bands  of  steel  bound  these  two  together,  yet  bands  of  steel 
will  ofttimes  break  in  frosty  weather. 

Having  thus  made  up  his  mind  what  course  to  pursue, 
Ronald  went  to  the  rectory  the  day  of  Arthur's  departure 
and  found  Elsie  feeding  her  doves.  She  welcomed  him  cor- 
dially, as  of  old,  and,  although  looking  sad,  had  smiles  for 
her  former  playmate,  sympathized  with  him  in  his  sickness, 
regretted  so  much  she  was  going  to  lose  him,  even  for  so 
short  a  time,  and  sighed  over  the  lonesome  hours  she  should 
pass  now  that  he  and  Arthur  were  going  away,  but  Arthur 
had  promised  her,  she  said,  to  come  down,  if  possible,  every 
fortnight,  "  and,  of  course,  Ronald,  you  will  come  also." 

*'  That  depends,"'  said  Ronald.  "  Do  you  remember,  El- 
sie, the  time  when  you  first  began  to  walk  and  I  hung  on 
your  footsteps }  No,  of  course  you  can  not  remember  it, 
but  I  do.  I  watched  over  you  then  until  you  were  eight 
years  old,  when  Arthur  came,  and  you  had  the  attention  of 
both  of  us  until  you  were  twelve.  I  recall  then  even,  Elsie, 
when  you  sometimes  spoke  of  '  Prince  Golden  Hair,'  how 
my  boyish  heart  would  ache  at  the  idea  of  your  thinking  of 
any  one  but  me,  and  though  I  liked  Arthur  very  much,  I  was 
jealous  if  you  showed  him  any  more  attention  than  you  did 
me.  You  scorned  to  be  more  familiar  with  one  than  with 
the  other  ;  but  we  laughed  and  romped  more  together.  You 
always  gave  him  a  full-blown  rose  when  you  gave  me  an 
opening  bud — all  of  which  made  me  believe  that  I  was  your 
favorite,  if  you  had  any.  Then  we  boys  went  to  Chatham, 
and  when  we  returned  you  were  growing  so  beautiful  that  I 
could  not  keep  my  eyes  off  you.  Sometimes  when  Arthur 
did  come  with  me  you  would  take  my  arm,  and  say :  *  Come, 
Ronald,  let  us  go  out  to  the  knoll  and  feed  the  doves,'  and 
we  went — you  full  of  gayety  and  happinessa — and  we  spent 
hours  there.     Let  us  go  there  now,  Elsie." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Elsie,  starting,  "not  to-day.  We  will 
feed  the  doves  at  the  lake  ;  I  do  not  want  to  sit  on  the  grass." 
The  fact  was  she  thought  it  would  be  a  desecration  to  sit  on 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


167 


the  knoll  with  any  one  else  after  spending  so  many  hours 
there  with  her  lover,  and  she  could  not  gratify  Ronald  so 
much. 

"  Well,"  said  Ronald,  "  I'm  sorry,  as  it  would  have  been 
something  to  remember,  the  knoll  is  associated  with  so 
many  days  of  my  boyhood." 

"  But,  Ronald,  it  does  not  require  the  knoll  to  make  me 
remember  you,  for  I  shall  never  forget  you  under  any  cir- 
cumstances. I  remember  you  first  of  all  those  I  have  ever 
known,  even  so  far  back  as  when  I  was  four  years  old,  when 
I  was  never  happy  without  you.  You  romped  with  me,  car- 
ried me  on  your  back,  dragged  me  in  my  wagon,  gathered 
flowers  for  me,  and  all  day  long  catered  to  my  pleasures — 
how  can  I  ever  forget  it  ?  " 

"And,  then,"  continued  Ronald,  "  when  I  left  Cambridge 
I  had  not  seen  you  for  nearly  a  year,  during  which  time  you 
had  grown  to  womanhood,  being  just  sixteen.  To  you  the 
stream  of  life  looked  as  bright  as  heaven,  your  face  was  ra- 
diant with  happiness. 

Deep  and  still  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  did  seem 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

You  were  far  more  beautiful  than  all  the  world  besides  and 
no  shadow  of  ill  disturbed  the  serenity  of  your  life.  The 
waves  on  the  river  shore  were  calling  you  to  look  at  and 
cull  the  flowers  on  its  banks,  the  birds  were  trilling  to  you 
to  come  and  hear  them  singing  their  carols,  the  stars  shone 
for  you  as  they  did  for  no  one  else,  all  nature  rejoiced  over 
you  as  it  never  rejoiced  before,  and,  Elsie,  I  rejoiced  more 
than  anything  else.  To  me  you  had  been  of  rare  beauty, 
even  in  infancy,  but  at  sixteen,  my  heart  went  out  to  you 
with  a  passionate  love  that  nothing  but  death  can  still.  It 
has  grown  with  my  growth,  strengthened  with  my  strength, 
and  now,  Elsie,  I  am  like  a  river  that  has  burst  its  bounds — 
I  can  no  longer  keep  my  secret." 

Elsie  tried  to  stop  him,  but  in  vain.    Ronald  continued* 


1 68  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

"  You  do  not  know  the  misery  brought  on  by  love  when  it  is 
penned  up  in  a  man's  breast  and  he  can  not  give  utterance 
to  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  loved  you  since  I  was 
born,  and,  now  that  I  am  going  away  from  you  for  God 
knows  how  long,  I  want  you  to  understand  it." 

"  Of  course,  I  understand  it  all,  Ronald,"  she  said.  "  Do 
you  think  I  could  ever  be  so  ungrateful  as  to  forget  the 
kindness  my  dear  brother  has  shown  me  for  so  many  years  ? 
No  sister  ever  had  a  greater  affection  for  a  brother  than 
I  have  for  you." 

"Oh,  Elsie,"  he  cried,  impatiently,  "  that  is  not  the  kind 
of  love  I  want  from  you.  When  a  man  asks  for  a  glass  of 
champagne  you  might  as  well  offer  him  a  tumbler  of  rain- 
water. I  want  that  love  which  comes  from  woman's  soul — 
the  love  which  is  the  very  essence  of  her  being — a  love  that 
can  bring  a  healing  balm  to  a  heart  that  has  but  one  hope. 
I  want  the  love  of  your  life — the  love  of  your  soul.  I  am 
sick  of  being  a  brother ;  I  want  the  smile  of  God  in  my 
heart,  and  I  can  only  get  it  through  your  love." 

"Why,  Ronald,"  she  said,  "you  are  not  yourself,  your 
sickness  has  unnerved  you,  and  you  pain  me  by  talking  in 
this  way.     How  could  I  love  you  better  than  a  brother  ?  " 

"  What  I  mean,  Elsie,"  he  replied,  ''  is  that  you  should 
love  me  with  all  your  heart  and  soul — as  women  love  those 
whom  they  intend  to  marry." 

"Ah,  Ronald,"  she  said,  the  tears  running  down  her 
cheeks,  "  do  not  ask  that,  for  I  can  not  love  you  that  way. 
That  is  a  love  which  is  in  God's  holy  keeping  and  given  to 
those  he  sees  most  fitting  to  wear  it.  Do  not  mar  my 
happiness  by  wishing  me  to  do  what  my  instincts  tell  me 
is  wrong.  I  can  always  love  you  as  a  brother,  but  could 
never  love  you  as  a  wife.'* 

Ronald  was  prepared  for  this  answer,  but  he  determined 
that  she  should  know  before  he  left  her  how  deeply  he 
loved  her.  She  would,  at  all  events,  always  feel  kindly  to- 
ward him,  and  who  knew  what  turn  events  would  take  ? 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  .      169 

When  he  sat  and  looked  at  her  in  all  her  beauty  he  could 
compare  her  to  nothing  but  a  lily  illumined  by  the  smile  of 
God.  He  would  gather  the  flower,  if  it  cost  him  his  life. 
The  dew  of  youth  was  on  his  brow,  and  his  soul  sprang  to 
hers  as  sunlight  springs  to  meet  the  day.  Why  should  he 
allow  that  sweet  essence  to  be  breathed  by  another  when 
he  felt  that  she  was  the  only  woman  who  could  pour  balm 
into  his  stricken  heart  ?  He  told  her  so  with  all  the  pathos 
he  could  command,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  dear  Ronald,  it  can  not  be.  When  you  are  going 
away  v/hy  do  you  leave  regrets  with  me  instead  of  the  pleas- 
ant anticipations  of  meeting  my  brother  again  ?  Why  do 
you  depress  me  with  forebodings  of  misfortunes  to  come  .-* 
This  may  lead  to  strife,  and  rather  than  that  should  occur, 
I  would  enter  a  convent  and  spend  my  life  in  prayer  for 
those  I  love,  and  in  preparing  myself  for  a  better  world," 
and  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  again.  This  seemed  to 
touch  the  young  man's  heart.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  her 
show  such  distress. 

"  Well,  Elsie,"  he  said,  '*  I  will  say  no  more  now,  but  will 
live  in  hope.  The  light  in  my  heart  is  dimmed  for  a  time, 
but  I  trust  it  will  be  illumined  by  a  brighter  star  in  the 
future,  and  that  star  shall  be  yourself.  You  know  now  the 
love  I  have  for  you,  and  that  love  shall  be  the  star  that 
guides  me  through  life,  for,  Elsie,  I  could  not  live  and  see 
any  one  else  possess  what  I  prize  so  dearly.  Now,  I  will 
say  good-by,  for  the  hour  of  departure  is  at  hand." 

"  Good-by,  Ronald,"  she  said.  The  tears  still  flowed 
from  her  eyes,  for  she  felt  deeply  for  him  though  she  could 
not  love  him  as  he  wished.  He  had  pleaded  his  cause  so 
eloquently,  too,  and  what  woman  does  not  love  to  hear  a 
man  speak  eloquently  in  his  own  behalf,  even  though  she 
must  reject  him  ? 

Ronald  went  with  bitterness  in  his  heart.  Words  could 
not  express  what  he  felt.  Arthur's  name  had  not  been  men- 
tioned, but  he  knew  that  every  word  she  uttered  had  refer- 


I/O 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


ence  to  him,  and  he  had  seen  enough  to  satisfy  him  as  to 
where  Elsie's  heart  was.  When  he  opened  the  subject  of 
love  he  was  merely  opening  the  way  for  future  operations, 
when  the  seed  he  had  sown  had  developed  into  a  full  grown 
plant. 

Elsie  spent  hours  in  her  room  meditating  on  the  events 
of  the  morning.  She  had  a  presentiment  of  evil  she  could 
not  lay  aside,  and  for  a  long  time  tortured  herself  with  the 
idea  that  out  of  this  love  of  Arthur  and  herself,  which  was 
the  light  of  her  life,  would  grow  discord  and  bitter  enmity 
that  might  destroy  the  lives  of  both.  She  regarded  herself 
as  another  Helen,  to  set  the  hearts  of  men  in  a  blaze  and 
bring  destruction  on  all  who  loved  her.  The  following  two 
days  were  unhappy  ones  to  her,  but  on  the  third  she  received 
a  letter  from  Arthur,  which  made  her  forget  that  there  was 
any  one  else  on  earth  but  him,  and  all  her  sorrow  was  scat- 
tered to  the  winds. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth 

In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 

On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

Two  days  after  Arthur  had  established  himself  and 
mother  in  Cavendish  Square,  he  called  at  the  office  of  the 
bankers,  Childs  &  Co.,  in  Leadenhall  Street,  to  deliver  his 
credentials.  He  found  the  senior  member  of  the  firm  in 
his  office,  a  room  divided  by  a  screen  of  heavy  iron-wire, 
inside  of  which  inclosure  sat  the  banker,  with  his  door  se- 
curely locked.  Though  everything  was  visible,  he  had  no 
intention  of  being  left  to  the  mercy  of  a  robber  in  case  one 
should  wander  that  way.  He  received  visitors  in  this  room, 
and  talked  to  them  through  the  screen — a  wise  precaution, 
s©  that  it  would  not  be  easy  for  any  one  to  secure  any  of 
the  valuable  packages  lying  on  the  table. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  ^i;i 

The  banker  received  Arthur  in  this  way,  and  took  his 
letters  through  a  pigeon-hole  in  the  screen,  which  process 
added  a  great  deal  to  the  mystery  of  the  operation.  He 
scanned  Arthur  carefully,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  was  a  fine-looking  fellow,  but  thought  to  himself  that 
the  finest  coat  does  not  always  hold  the  best  man — then  he 
read  the  letters. 

''Ah,"  he  said,  "glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Merton.  Your 
father,  who  is  one  of  our  heaviest  depositors,  and  I,  have 
been  in  correspondence  about  you.  You  wish  to  become  a 
banker — a  laudable  calling  and  a  lucrative  one  if  you  have 
plenty  of  money  to  back  it.  Just  look  at  the  banking-houses 
in  London  ;  they  keep  the  commerce  of  England  in  motion, 
and  their  bills  are  honored  in  every  part  of  the  world.  For 
the  present  you  will  act  as  my  private  secretary,  until  I  see 
what  ability  you  display.  Here,  copy  this  letter  in  your  best 
stvle  and  run  up  these  columns  of  figures."  The  banker 
then  turned  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

Arthur  took  a  seat  at  a  desk,  and  soon  copied  the  letter, 
summed  up  the  figures,  and  handed  his  work  to  the  banker. 
The  latter  took  the  papers  and  looked  them  over.  "  Beau- 
tifully done  ;  you  will  prove  a  jewel  if  you  do  everything  as 
well  as  that.  You  write  a  good  hand,  and  work  rapidly. 
Now  I  will  trouble  you  to  back  and  file  these  papers,"  hand- 
ing him  a  large  bundle,  "  that  will  give  you  as  much  as  you 
can  attend  to  at  one  time.  I  would  like  my  secretary  to  be 
able  to  hand  me  a  paper  at  a  moment's  notice.  Can  you 
draw  a  bill  of  exchange  .'*  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  you  are  partly  a  banker  already.  Half 
the  secret  of  banking  is  being  able  to  draw  a  bill  of  exchange. 
The  next  thing  is  to  pay  one.  Stick  to  business  and  do  not 
speculate,  and  you  will  be  all  right."  Then  he  returned  to 
his  writing,  wasting  no  more  words. 

In  an  hour  and  a  half  Arthur  had  finished  the  task  as- 
signed him,  and  backed  and  filed  the  papers,  and  had  at- 


172  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

tached  an  alphabetical  index  which  would  enable  him  to  lay 
his  hands  on  any  paper  wanted.  The  banker  eyed  his  work 
closely.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I  declare  you  do  better  than 
some  old  hands  I  have  had.  Do  not  get  spoiled  in  Lon- 
don ;  it  is  a  bad  place  ;  a  great  many  temptations  here." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  them,  sir,"  he  repHed.  "I  have 
taken  rooms  with  my  mother  in  Cavendish  Square.  I  am 
devoted  to  her,  and  do  not  care  for  amusements.  My  tastes 
are  for  country  pursuits." 

*'Good,"  said  the  banker,  "good;  and  now  you  can  go 
and  look  after  your  m.other.  She  will  feel  lonesome  with- 
out you  in  this  big  town."  And  thus  ended  Arthur's  first 
day's  employment  in  a  banking-house. 

Ronald  was  also  successful  in  pleasing  his  employers, 
and  the  two  friends  spent  their  first  evening  together  with 
Arthur's  mother,  comparing  notes.  Elsie  had  promised 
Ronald  that  she  would  keep  inviolable  the  secret  he  had 
confided  to  her,  and  he  never  gave  Arthur  a  hint  that  he 
had  any  other  feelings  toward  Elsie  than  those  of  a  brother, 
so  that  their  amicable  relations  were  not  interrupted,  and 
everything  went  on  as  smoothly  as  in  the  days  of  their  boy- 
hood. In  fact,  Ronald  had  recovered  his  health  and  spirits, 
and,  owing  to  the  circumstance  that  Arthur  could  not  see 
Elsie,  he  was  happier  than  usual.  It  was  Ronald's  policy 
now  to  keep  them  apart  as  much  as  possible. 

In  a  month  they  both  might  have  been  called  hahituis 
of  London,  they  knew  so  much  about  the  city.  They  had 
both  also  gained  favor  with  their  respective  employers,  and 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  number  of  young  people  of  their 
own  age  who  inducted  them  into  the  gayeties  of  the  capital, 
though  Arthur,  having  to  look  after  his  mother,  left  home 
less  frequently  than  Ronald.  So  two  months  passed  rap- 
idly. Day  after  day  the  two  young  men  would  meet  to- 
gether at  lunch-time  and  take  that  meal  at  a  chop-house. 
On  one  of  these  occasions  when  Arthur  was  walking  toward 
the  place  of  rendezvous  he  saw  Ronald  talking  with  a  com- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  i;3 

mon-looking  fellow,  who  skulked  away  as  he  approached. 
He  at  first  supposed  it  was  some  porter  connected  with  the 
house  of  Emerson  &  Brothers,  but  as  the  man  walked  off  he 
recognized  Bill  Briggs. 

When  Arthur  came  up  with  his  friend,  he  remarked  :  "  I 
saw  you  talking  with  that  scamp  Bill  Briggs.  What  is  he 
doing  in  London  ?  " 

''  Nothing  in  particular,"  said  Ronald.  "  My  mother  sent 
him  up  to  bring  me  some  things."  He  blushed  as  he  said 
it,  but  this  escaped  Arthur's  notice.  There  was  a  time  when 
Ronald  would  have  cut  his  hand  off  sooner  than  descend  to 
a  subterfuge,  but  under  the  tutelage  of  Briggs  he  did  not 
now  hesitate  to  tell  a  lie. 

In  the  two  months  that  the  young  men  had  been  in  Lon- 
don, Briggs  had  improved  his  time  in  making  himself  ac- 
quainted with  the  slums  of  the  city  and  preparing  for  the 
opportunity  that  would  give  him  the  revenge  he  had  nursed 
for  years.  He  had  wrought  Ronald  up  to  such  a  pitch  of 
hatred  of  Arthur  that  he  had  long  since  been  taught  to  be- 
lieve his  friend  to  be  his  bitterest  enemy  and  had  been  con- 
vinced that  the  only  way  he  could  succeed  with  the  woman 
he  loved  was  by  Arthur's  destruction. 

Ronald  often  stopped  at  the  banking-house  to  pick  up 
Arthur  and  go  together  to  lunch  or,  if  the  banker  happened 
to  be  out,  sit  and  talk  over  the  news  of  the  day.  On  one 
occasion  there  was  a  good-sized  bundle  lying  on  the  table, 
inside  the  banker's  wire  inclosure,  which  attracted  his  atten- 
tion. "  Pray,  what  is  that  ? "  said  Ronald,  pointing  to  the 
package. 

"  That,"  said  the  other,  "  is  a  package  of  bank-notes 
that  I  am  to  take  to  the  Bank  of  England,  but  as  the  banker 
has  locked  it  up  I  shall  not  be  able  to  get  it  till  he  returns." 

"  Does  he  always  keep  the  key  of  that  place  himself  ?  " 
said  Ronald. 

"Yes,  always,"  replied  Arthur. 

"  Then,  I  propose  that  we  go  and  get  our  lunch  and  come 


174 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


back  here."  Taking  up  his  hat,  he  said,  "Come  on."  Be- 
ing in  the  humor,  Arthur  followed  him.  It  was  the  usual 
hour  for  lunch  and  only  a  few  clerks  were  left  in  the  office. 

After  walking  a  short  distance,  Ronald  said  :  "  You  go 
on  and  order  the  lunch ;  I  will  join  you  in  ten  minutes  ;  I 
have  something  to  attend  to."  With  that  they  parted,  each 
on  his  separate  errand.  Ronald  crossed  the  street,  went 
back  a  few  steps,  and  then  passed  up  an  alley-way  for  about 
a  hundred  yards,  where  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  shabby- 
looking  house.  The  door  was  opened  by  Bill  Briggs,  and 
Ronald  entered.  A  conversation  ensued,  lasting  about  ten 
minutes,  when  they  separated,  Briggs  going  up  Leadenhall 
Street  and  Ronald  to  the  chop-house,  where  he  found  Arthur 
just  sitting  down  to  lunch. 

They  remained  together  a  few  minutes,  when  Arthur  sud- 
denly remembered  a  matter  of  business.  *'  I  must  deliver 
this  draft  before  two  o'clock.  Go  on  with  your  lunch  ;  I 
will  take  a  hansom  and  be  back  in  a  few  minutes." 

Arthur  jumped  into  a  cab  and  drove  up  Leadenhall  Street 
while  Ronald  waited  for  him,  an  anxious  look  settling  on  his 
face.  In  a  short  time  Arthur  returned,  and  they  finished 
their  lunch,  after  which  they  walked  up  Leadenhall  Street, 
each  to  his  respective  bank.  The  banker  had  not  returned 
when  Arthur  arrived,  and  he  sat  down  to  write.  In  twenty 
minutes  the  former  came  in  and  unlocked  the  inner  door. 

"  Mr.  Merton,"  he  said,  "  did  you  remove  the  package  of 
Bank  of  England  notes  I  left  on  the  table  ? " 

Arthur  jumped  up.  *'  Why,  no,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no 
way  of  removing  it,  as  you  took  the  key  with  you  ;  besides 
I  saw  it  on  the  table  through  the  wires  before  I  went  out  at 
one  o'clock." 

^'  It  is  very  curious,"  said  the  banker ;  "  it  is  not  there 
now." 

"I  waited  for  you  until  one  o'clock,  sir,"  said  Arthur, 
"  thinking  you  might  come  in,  and  then  I  went  to  lunch.  On 
my  way  I  delivered   the   draft   for    Mr.  Bronson,    then    I 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 75 

came  here,  and  I  have  only  been  in  twenty  minutes.     I  was 
gone  less  than  an  hour  altogether." 

"  In  that  time,"  said  the  banker,  "  the  roof  might  be  taken 
off  the  house.     Call  the  porter,  if  you  please." 

The  porter  came.     "  Jonas,"  said  the  banker,  "has  any 
one  been  in  this  room  since  Mr.  Merton  went  out.''" 
.   "  No,  sir,"  said  the  porter. 

"Has  the  outer  door  been  kept  locked?" 

"  No,  sir,"  the  porter  replied,  "  but  I  was  sitting  facing 
the  entrance  to  the  bank,  and  no  one  came  in  but  the  clerks 
who  had  gone  out  to  lunch  at  different  times." 

"  But  you  had  no  business  to  leave  the  door  unlocked," 
said  the  banker,  "  when  we  were  out." 

"  Well,  the  truth  is,  Mr.  Childs,"  said  the  porter,  "  when 
Mr.  Arthur  and  his  friend  went  out  I  was  sitting  looking 
at  the  door,  and  lost  myself  for  just  a  moment.  I  have  been 
up  three  nights  with  a  sick  child,  and  for  the  life  of  me  I 
could  not  keep  my  eyes  open,  and  then,  sir,  I  forgot  the 
door,  but  I  never  was  out  of  sight  of  it." 

"  Mr.  Merton's  friend  }  "  inquired  the  banker.  "Who  was 
that .?  " 

"  Ronald  Pentland  called  in  for  me  to  go  to  lunch  with 
him,"  said  Arthur,  "and  the  package  was  there  on  your  table 
when  we  went  out." 

"Then,"  said  the  banker,  "it  is  very  certain  I  did  not 
take  it  away  with  me  by  mistake." 

"  Of  that  I  am  sure,"  said  Arthur. 

"Well,  Mr.  Merton,  the  first  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to 
notify  the  bank  what  notes  are  missing.  As  you  go  along 
stop  at  the  telegraph  office  and  telegraph  to  Scotland  Yard 
to  send  me  two  of  their  best  detectives." 

Arthur  started  on  his  errand,  and  the  banker,  having  done 
all  he  could  under  the  circumstances,  sat  down  at  his  desk. 
There  wxre  a  dozen  letters  on  it  which  he  had  not  had  time 
to  read  before  going  out  in  the  morning,  so  he  ran  through 
them.     One  in  particular  attracted  his  attention.     He  read 


176  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

it  very  carefully,  examined  it  all  over,  and  noted  the  water- 
mark.    The  letter  read  as  follows  : 

"  London,  September  12. 

*'  You  have  a  young  man  in  your  employ,  Arthur  Merton, 
who  is  a  gambler.  He  bets  heavily,  and  is  not  a  safe  per- 
son.    Watch  him.     'A  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient.' 

"  One  who  knows." 

The  letter  was  written  in  a  fine  hand,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  indicate  from  whom  it  came.  The  banker  read 
it  once  or  twice.  *'  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,"  he  said 
aloud.  "  The  lad  has  some  secret  enemy.  If  he  is  a  gam- 
bler he  is  unfortunate,  for  from  gambling  follows  every  crime. 
I  am  not  likely  to  be  deceived  in  my  men,  but  if  1  should 
be  what  a  shock  it  would  give  me  ! " 

Arthur  came  back  in  half  an  hour,  his  face  beaming  with 
health  and  manly  beauty.  It  was  a  crisp,  cold  day,  and  the 
blood  circulated  rapidly  in  his  veins.  "  I  notified  the  bank, 
sir,  and  gave  them  the  numbers,  They  said  they  would 
have  a  list  printed  and  sent  to  all  the  bankers  in  the  city  so 
that  the  notes  could  not  be  passed." 

The  banker  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  a  more  in- 
genuous face.  ''Look  here,  Mr.  Merton,"  he  said,  "you 
know  young  men  better  than  I  do  ;  I  have  a  young  proteg6 
who  is  the  idol  of  his  mother.  I  have  obtained  a  position 
for  him  in  a  banking-house.  He  has  taken  to  gambling," 
and  he  looked  Arthur  straight  in  the  face. 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  latter,  "  that  is  a  bad  sign.  A  man 
who  gambles  has  no  business  in  a  banking-house." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  banker ;  "  I  hope  you  will  never 
indulge  in  cards." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  in  amazement,  "  why  I  never  played 
a  card  in  my  life.  I  think  my  mother  would  break  her  heart 
if  I  did." 

'^I   am  sure  you  never  will,"  said   the  banker;  "you 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  i;/ 

have  been  so  well  brought  up."  With  that  he  resumed  his 
writing. 

The  two  detectives  soon  arrived,  and  after  communicat- 
ing with  them  and  letting  them  obtain  from  Arthur  all  he 
knew,  the  banker  left  the  matter  in  their  hands.  The  first 
thing  they  examined  was  the  table,  which  was  covered  with 
blue  cloth.  On  this  they  found  a  slight  mark  of  a  boot- 
heel,  then  on  examining  the  wires  of  the  cage  small  remnants 
of  yarn  were  found  clinging  to  them,  as  if  from  a  yarn  stock- 
ing. A  drawer  at  one  end  of  the  table  was  found  open,  and 
there  was  a  trace  of  footsteps  in  the  yard,  but  nothing  on 
which  they  could  hang  any  evidence,  and  there  the  matter 
rested  for  the  time.  The  thief  must  have  entered  by  the 
back  window,  crawled  over  the  wire  cage,  and  taken  the 
notes,  but  how  any  one  could  have  climbed  up  to  the  win- 
dow the  detectives  could  not  imagine,  so  they  went  home  to 
study  the  matter  out. 

Two  weeks  elapsed  without  any  sign  of  the  missing  notes. 
All  the  banks  in  Great  Britain  were  aware  of  the  robbery 
and  were  watching  for  some  one  to  offer  the  notes  to  be 
changed,  but  the  thief  had  shown  himself  the  shrewdest  one 
that  had  appeared  for  some  time.  All  that  could  be  done 
by  the  detectives  was  to  watch  and  wait  and  hope  to  be  suc- 
cessful in  the  long  run. 

A  month  passed  away  when  one  day,  just  as  Arthur  was 
about  locking  up  the  office  for  the  day,  a  note  was  handed 
to  him  which  ran  as  follows  : 

"  I  am  in  sore  distress.  You  have  plenty — I  am  suffer- 
ing. My  mother  was  once  a  dependent  of  yours.  She  will 
remember  me,  but  do  not  loiter  on  the  way.  I  am  dying  of 
hunger.  Charlotte  Foster,  i6o  Charing  Cross." 

Arthur's  heart  was  always  open  to  the  calls  of  humanity, 
and  this  appeal  touched  his  best  feelings.     The  fact  that  this 
person  had  been  in  some  way  connected  with  his  mother  was 
12 


i;8  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

an  additional  reason  for  interesting  himself  in  her  behalf,  but 
he  determined  to  go  home  and  consult  his  mother  on  the  sub- 
ject. Putting  out  the  gaslight  and  leaving  the  office  in  good 
order,  he  departed  for  home,  where  he  met  his  mother  and 
told  her  of  the  note  he  had  received.  She  told  him  that  while 
at  Lyneham  a  Mrs.  Foster  lived  with  her  as  housekeeper  and 
this  must  be  one  of  her  daughters,  who  were  children  at  that 
time.  She  advised  him  to  go  and  see  her  at  once,  which  he 
proceeded  to  do,  promising  to  return  in  an  hour. 

It  was  a  dark,  cold  day.  A  fog  was  settling  down  on 
London,  one  of  those  impenetrable  mists  that  often  take  pos- 
session of  the  city,  putting  a  stop  to  traffic  and  driving  pe- 
destrians indoors  to  seek  shelter  from  passing  vehicles  that 
are  constantly  running  foul  of  each  other.  The  smoke  from 
the  chimneys  mingled  with  the  fog  and  settled  upon  the  few 
people  who  were  abroad.  London  was  not  on  this  afternoon 
a  very  pleasant  place  to  saunter  about  in.  Arthur  drew  his 
Macintosh  close  about  him,  and  walked  rapidly  toward  the 
abode  of  his  correspondent.  The  number  indicated  a  house 
in  a  respectable  quarter,  and  he  hoped  he  would  not  find  the 
writer  so  great  an  object  of  charity  as  he  was  led  to  believe 
by  her  appealing  letter. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  he  left  Cavendish  Square  and 
quite  dark.  The  gas-lights  flickered  mournfully  and  dimly 
through  the  fog,  and  the  noise  of  vehicles  and  the  oaths  of 
the  drivers  formed  a  hubbub  that  could  only  be  compared 
to  Pandemonium.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  Arthur 
reached  Charing  Cross,  and  then  it  took  him  some  time  be- 
fore he  could  make  out  the  number  in  the  darkness,  but  at 
last  he  found  the  door  of  the  house.  It  was  a  tall  building 
with  some  pretensions  to  elegance  in  its  day,  but  showing 
evidence  of  neglect,  and  the  appearance  of  affairs  was  in  no 
way  enhanced  by  the  fog  and  smoke  which  covered  every- 
thing. 

Arthur  rang  the  bell,  but  there  was  no  answer,  so  he 
opened  the  door  and  entered  a  long  passage  from  which  led 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 79 

a  flight  of  stairs.  The  passage  was  empty,  and  finding  that 
no  one  appeared  to  answer  the  bell,  he  pursued  his  way  up 
the  steps  till  he  saw  a  dim  light  at  the  head  of  the  landing. 
Here  he  came  upon  a  man  apparently  asleep  in  a  chair  with 
an  old  blanket  thrown  around  him,  a  slouch  hat  on  his  head, 
and  his  chin  resting  on  his  breast.  Arthur  could  see  but 
dimly,  for  the  entry  was  dark,  and  he  thought  he  had  been 
unwise  to  venture  into  such  a  place  without  knowing  any- 
thing about  it.  For  a  moment  he  considered  whether  it  would 
not  be  better  to  beat  a  retreat  until  he  could  ascertain  some- 
thing about  the  character  of  the  house,  but  he  was  naturally 
courageous  and  had  great  reliance  on  his  ability  to  take  care 
of  himself. 

At  that  moment  the  man  looked  up  and,  without  chang- 
ing his  position,  said,  in  a  rough  voce  :  "  Are  ye  lookin'  for 
Charlotte  Foster  ?      If  ye  be,  she's  in  that  room  a-waitin' 

for  ye." 

"  I  am  looking  for  that  person,"  said  Arthur  ;  "  please 
show  me  the  way  to  her  room." 

The  man  rose  slowiy,  as  if  crippled,  and  drawing  the 
blanket  close  around  him,  hobbled  to  the  door  at  the  end  of 
the  passage.  "Be  quiet  as  ye  enter,"  said  the  man ;  "she 
may  be  sleepin',  and  if  so  ye  must  wait  till  she  wakes.  She's 
been  expectin'  ye."  He  opened  the  door.  Arthur  entered, 
and  the  door  closed  behind  him  with  a  snap  that  did  not 
sound  pleasant  to  his  ears.  He  turned  immediately  and 
put  his  hand  on  the  knob,  but  it  would  not  yield.  He  was 
locked  in. 

His  heart  did  not  fail  him  for  a  moment,  though  he  had 
never  been  placed  in  such  a  situation  in  his  life.  The  room 
he  was  in  was  a  good-sized  one,  and  as  far  as  he  could  see 
by  the  dim  light  was  well  furnished.  There  were  live  coals 
in  the  fireplace,  and  there  was  a  bed  in  the  room  on  which 
some  one  was  lying.  The  room  smelled  strongly  of  chloro- 
form, and  Arthur  felt  that  if  he  were  exposed  to  its  influence 
even  for  a  few  minutes  he  would  be  overcome.     He  went 


l8o  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

toward  the  bed  and  raised  the  dim  light.  Heavens !  what 
a  sight  met  his  eyes  !  A  woman,  apparently  young  and 
handsome,  lay  dead  upon  the  couch.  Arthur  was  perfectly 
cool,  though  he  felt  as  if  he  were  suffering  under  a  nightmare. 
He  put  his  hand  upon  the  body  and  found  that  it  was  not 
cold,  but  the  wide-open  eyes  expressed  such  a  horror  as  he 
had  never  seen  before  on  a  human  face.  The  mouth  was 
drawn  up  as  with  pain,  and  the  bed-clothes  gave  evidence 
of  a  considerable  struggle. 

To  say  that  Arthur  Merton  was  horrified  at  the  state  of 
affairs,  would  be  to  faintly  express  his  feelings.  He  antici- 
pated nothing  but  evil  from  the  adventure,  and  wished  him- 
self well  out  of  the  difficulty.  In  the  mean  time,  the  chloro- 
form escaping  from  some  quarter  was  rapidly  filling  the 
room,  and  he  began  to  feel  the  effect  of  it  very  much.  He 
knocked  on  the  door  through  which  he  had  entered,  but 
there  was  no  reply.  He  tried  to  raise  the  windows,  but  they 
were  covered  inside  by  heavy  shutters  screwed  fast.  "  I  am 
lost !  "  he  cried. 

The  chloroform  affected  him  so  that  he  felt  that  he  would 
fall  asleep  if  he  did  not  move  about.  There  was  another 
door  in  the  room,  which  he  took  to  be  a  closet,  but  as  he 
pulled  it  open,  a  burst  of  fresh  air  poured  into  the  room. 
"Thank  God!"  he  ejaculated.  "I  am  saved,  but  what  a 
close  shave  it  was  !  " 

At  this  moment  Arthur  was  struck  in  the  head  with  a 
sand-bag  in  the  hands  of  a  man  who  had  entered  from  the 
back  room.  He  fell  to  the  floor,  and  his  assailant,  jumping 
on  him,  applied  a  sponge  saturated  with  chloroform  to  his 
mouth.  He  was  now  entirely  in  the  power  of  his  assailant, 
who  was  the  same  person  he  had  met  in  the  entry.  This 
fellow,  as  soon  as  he  had  shut  Arthur  in,  recovered  the  use  of 
his  legs  with  marvelous  ease,  and  running  around  to  the  back 
room  entered  and  knocked  Arthur  down  in  the  manner 
described. 

The  ruffian  looked  at  his  victim  for  a  few  moments  as  if 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  l8l 

he  enjoyed  it,  then  he  spoke  :  "  There,  damn  ye,  I've  got  ye 
at  last.  When  I  told  ye  six  years  agone,  that  the  day'd  come 
when  I'd  sarve  ye  out,  I  didn't  think  it  would  come  so  soon. 
Now  ter  business." 

He  laid  a  handkerchief  saturated  with  chloroform  on 
Arthur's  face,  and  threw  his  coat  open.  He  then  took  from 
under  the  mattress  a  box,  from  which  he  extracted  the  en- 
velope which  had  been  stolen  from  the  banking-house  of 
Childs  and  Co.,  broke  the  seal,  and  took  out  some  of  the 
notes,  which  he  proceeded  to  sew  with  thread  and  needle 
into  the  breast-pocket  of  Arthur's  coat,  putting  also  one  note 
and  some  gold  in  his  inside  vest-pocket.  Then  he  buttoned 
up  the  coat  again,  and  gave  the  body  a  kick. 

"There,"  said  the  wretch,  "if  that  don't  send  ye  to 
HaustraHa,  nothin'  will.  Damn  ye,  I  spit  on  yer  like  I 
would  a  dog."  Then  he  took  Arthur's  silk  handkerchief, 
which  bore  his  initials,  and  tied  it  about  the  neck  of  the 
dead  woman,  so  that  the  tongue  partially  protruded,  and, 
standing  there,  complacently  contemplated  his  work,  ex- 
claiming:  "Well,  if  that  ain't  a  neat  job  I'm  a  Dutchman, 
hand  it'll  take  hall  the  detectives  in  Scotland  Yard  to  find 
it  out.  Now  for  the  detectives— it's  time  they  was  on  the 
stand,  hand  I  guess  I  better  be  a-lookin'  fer  'em.  I'll  leave 
that  feller  to  come  to,  and  to  get  a-staggerin',  and  they'll 
say  to-morrer  as  he  was  drunk.  To-morrer  ye'll  hear  a 
long  rigmarole  in  the  papers,  as  how  Kelly  and  Finch,  the 
tv/o  great  detectives,  worked  up  this  'ere  robbery  of  Bank- 
of-Hengland  notes,  hand  not  only  found  'em  on  the  body 
of  the  thief,  but  convicted  'im  of  murder.  Well,  well,  I  ain't 
no  detective,  oh,  no,  but  if  I  ain't  cooked  up  a  kittle  of  fish 
as  will  astonish  Lunnon,  my  name  ain't  Bill  Briggs.  Now 
for  the  detectives,"  and  he  went  out. 

As  soon  as  the  chloroform  was  taken  from  Arthur's  nose 
and  mouth  he  began  to  revive,  and,  now  that  the  entry-door 
was  left  open,  a  fine  draught  of  air  was  blowing  into  the 
room.     He  sat   up  a  moment,  but,  being  much  exhausted, 


1 82  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

had  to  lie  down  again.  In  five  minutes  his  senses  all  came 
back  to  him,  and  he  was  glad  to  find  himself  alive.  He 
was  conscious  that  he  had  been  struck  with  something,  and 
then  he  thought  he  had  died.  He  remembered  that  he  had 
been  looking  at  the  body  on  the  bed,  and  he  went  there 
again  to  examine  it,  but  he  was  dazed  with  the  events  that 
had  occurred,  and  when  he  saw  the  face  of  the  dead  woman, 
from  which  the  tongue  was  protruding  and  the  eyes  starting 
from  the  sockets,  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  turned 
and  fled  through  the  entry-door  and  down  the  stairs,  until 
he  landed  outside  on  the  pavement.  Then  he  stopped  to 
consider,  for  he  was  still  unsteady,  and  staggered  about  like 
a  man  who  had  been  drinking.  When  he  reached  the  curb- 
stone he  ran  right  into  the  arms  of  the  two  detectives  who 
had  been  ransacking  London  to  obtain  some  information  in 
regard  to  the  missing  Bank-of-England  notes  stolen  from 
Childs  &  Co. 

"That's  yer  man,"  said  Bill  Briggs,  ''hand  that's  'is  room 
where  he  kept  'is  woman,  at  the  top  of  the  entry.  Take  'im 
in  there  hand  let  'im  identify  *er." 

"You  are  our  man,"  said  detective  Kelly  to  Arthur,  *' go 
with  us  quietly,  and  we  won't  put  the  darbys  on  you." 

"  Go  where  ?  "  stammered  Arthur.  "  I  am  going  home  ; 
I'm  sick." 

"  Take  us  to  your  room,"  said  Kelly,  ''  the  one  your  girl 
lives  in — the  one  you  have  just  left  in  No.  i6o." 

""  Oh !  no,"  said  Arthur,  "  not  there,  for  God's  sake  ! 
It's  too  horrible.  What  am  I  arrested  for  ?  Take  me  home 
— No.  140  Cavendish  Square — I'm  very  sick." 

"Yes,"  said  the  detective,  "but  we  must  see  your  girl 
first.     Come  with  us." 

He  saw  that  Arthur  was  dazed  or  stupefied,  and,  putting 
his  hand  on  the  prisoner's  arm,  led  him  up  the  steps  to  the 
front  door  of  the  house,  through  which  he  passed  on  up  the 
stairs  to  the  first  floor.  When  he  put  his  hand  on  the  door- 
knob, Arthur  held  back,  and  exclaimed,  in  piteous  accents  : 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  183 

"  Oh !  don't  take  me  in  there,  it's  too  terrible  to  look  at." 
But  the  detectives  forced  him  in,  and  stood  with  him  by 
the  bedside  where  lay  the  corpse. 

"  There's  been  foul  work  here,"  said  detective  Kelly. 
"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  he  said  to  Arthur. 

"Arthur  Merton,"  he  answered. 

"  Ain't  you  the  young  gent  I  saw  in  Mr.  Childs's  bank- 
ing-house a  month  ago  .?  "  inquired  Kelly. 

"I  believe  I  am,"  said  Arthur,  "though  I  am  so  con- 
fused I  don't  know  who  or  what  I  am.  I've  been  chloro- 
formed, and  I  think  knocked  down." 

"  Who  is  this  woman  ?  "  inquired  the  detective. 

"That,"  said  Arthur,  shuddering,  "is  poor  Charlotte 
Foster.     She  is  dead." 

"  So  I  see,"  said  the  detective,  "  but  who  killed  her .?  " 
and  stooping  down  he  examined  the  handkerchief  around 
her  throat.  "What  is  this  handkerchief  with  your  name  on 
it  doing  around  her  throat  ?  " 

This  seemed  to  confuse  Arthur  more  than  ever.  He 
sank  into  a  chair  and  put  his  hands  to  his  face.  "  Let  me 
think,"  he  said.  He  sat  there  for  two  minutes,  and  then 
raised  his  head  with  a  hopeless  look  on  his  face.  "  I  can't 
think,"  he  said,  "  my  brain  seems  confused.  Take  me  out 
of  this  room,  it  makes  me  feel  sick.  Get  me  home  to  my 
mother  ;  she  will  feel  anxious  about  me.  I  hardly  know  who 
I  am — 140  Cavendish  Square — Arthur  Merton.  Don't  for- 
get.    I'm  secretary  to  Mr.  Childs." 

"  He  plays  his  part  well,"  said  Finch.  "  I  never  seen  it 
done  better,  but  it  won't  save  him.  Where's  that  feller  as 
brought  us  here  ?  He  seems  to  have  put  out  for  parts  un- 
known, and  we  ought  to  have  kept  him,  as  he  could  tell  us 
more  about  this.  I  should  not  know  him  again  if  I  saw  him, 
for  I've  never  seen  him  except  in  very  dark  nights  and 
in   this    fog."      Briggs,  sure   enough,  had    got    out   of  the 

way. 

"There's  something  wrong  about  that  informer,"  said 


1 84  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

Kelly.  **  The  next  time  I  get  a  chance,  I'll  hold  him  ;  he'll 
be  sure  to  turn  up  for  the  reward,  though." 

"  Let's  examine  the  prisoner,"  said  Finch,  *'  and  then 
send  around  for  the  coroner."     To  this  they  both  agreed. 

It  was  now  half-past  eight  o'clock,  and  the  night  was 
doubly  dark  from  the  fog,  which  even  forced  its  way  up- 
stairs, and  covered  the  walls  with  dampness.  A  few  coals 
only  were  left  in  the  fire-place,  and  the  lamp  threw  out  a 
most  grewsome  light.  The  eyes  of  the  corpse  seemed  to  be 
watching  every  movement  of  the  detectives,  and  to  be  pro- 
truding its  tongue  as  if  in  ridicule.  The  smell  of  chloroform 
was  still  strong  in  the  room,  even  affecting  the  detectives, 
who  on  looking  around  found  an  uncorked  bottle  of  the  stuff 
and  corked  it  up." 

"  And  here's  a  bottle  of  brandy  half  drunk  up,"  said  de- 
tective Kelly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Finch,  "  that's  where  the  feller  got  his  liquor." 

"  I'm  not  sure  he's  suffering  from  liquor,"  said  Kelly. 

"  I  am,"  said  the  other.    "  He's  playin'  a  deep  game." 

A  plaster-of- Paris  parrot  stood  on  the  mantel,  the  top  of 
which  could  be  removed.  "  See  here,"  said  Kelly,  "  this  is 
a  stow-hole,  and  here's  a  hundred-pound  note  on  the  Bank 
of  England,  by  George  !  Let  me  see  the  number.  Ah,  here 
it  is — 6580  D;  this  may  throw  some  light  on  the  subject, 
for  it's  the  first  clew  that  we  have  found  to  the  missing  notes. 
Let's  wake  this  fellow  up,  and  see  if  he  can  tell  us  anything 
about  it." 

They  shook  Arthur  roughly,  and  he  awoke.  "  Look 
here,"  said  Kelly,  *' it  will  be  easier  with  you  if  you  tell  the 
truth.     Do  you  recognize  this  note  ? " 

Arthur  opened  his  eyes  wide.  "  '  Tell  the  truth  ! '  "  he 
said,  "  I  could  not  tell  a  lie.  Let  me  see  the  number  of  that 
note,"  and  looking  at  it  steadily,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Why,  that 
is  one  of  the  stolen  notes  !  How  did  that  get  here  ?  I  re- 
member the  number." 

*'  Come,  now,"  said  detective    Finch,   '*  where  are    the 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 85 

others  ?    You  know.    Tell  us,  and  it  will  go  easier  with  you  ; 
you  may  get  off  with  ten  years." 

"/know!"  said  Arthur,  "why,  I  belong  to  the  bank. 
I've  been  hunting  for  them.  What  am  I  arrested  for  and 
why  kept  here  ?  " 

"  You  are  suspected  of  having  stolen  them  notes,"  said 
Finch,  sternly,  "  and  unless  you  tell  where  they  are  hid  I'll 
put  the  darbys  on  you  and  take  you  to  Bow  Street." 

Arthur  rose  to  his  feet  at  once,  his  eyes  flashing  and  his 
nostrils  dilated,  and  cried  :  "  Suspect  me  of  stealing  !  Make 
a  felon  of  me  !  Who  dares  do  that  ?  I  defy  the  whole 
world.  And  this  is  why  I  am  arrested }  Oh,  my  God  ! 
This  will  kill  my  mother.  Take  me  to  her  at  once,  she  is 
expecting  me  at  every  moment." 

"  He  plays  his  part  well,"  said  Finch,  whispering  to 
Kelly. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  the  other,  "he  is  perfectly 
natural.  Do  not  try  to  lead  me  on  a  wrong  scent,  as  you  did 
last  time." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Finch,  "I  never  saw  better  acting.  We 
have  not  searched  him  yet.  Better  do  it  before  he  gets  rid  of 
something  that  would  give  us  a  further  clew.  Stand  up, 
young  man,  and  let  me  search  you.  We  will  see  what  you 
have  about  you — or  will  you  give  up  the  notes  ?  " 

"Great  God!"  exclaimed  Arthur,  "you  certainly  can 
not  accuse  me  of  such  a  thing?  " 

"That's  all  very  fine,"  said  Finch,  "but,  come,  let  us 
search  you.  It  will  save  you  the  mortification  of  an  exami- 
nation of  your  person  before  all  the  police  at  Bow  Street." 

"  I  suppose  I  can  not  help  myself,"  said  Arthur,  "  and  I 
will  do  anything  to  get  out  of  this  room,  for  I  am  sick  to 
death,  and  want  to  go  home.  My  head  is  bursting,  so  come 
and  search  me  at  once,  and  small  good  may  it  do  you." 

Arthur,  in  obedience  to  a  request,  took  off  his  coat  and 
handed  it  to  detective  Finch,  who  said  :  "  Here's  a  package 
in  the  breast-pocket,  which  is  sewed  up.     What  is  this  ?  " 


1 86  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Arthur,  looking  surprised,  "when 
last  I  remember,  the  handkerchief  was  in  it." 

"And  now,"  said  Finch,  "your  handkerchief  is  around 
that  dead  woman's  throat," 

"  My  God  !  "  said  Arthur,  going  to  the  bedside  and  look- 
ing into  the  dead  woman's  face.  "What  does  all  this  mean, 
connecting  my  name  with  this  dreadful  tragedy,  for  such  it 
appears  to  be  ?  " 

"  It  looks,"  said  the  detective,  "  as  if  you  were  about  to 
play  the  principal  part  in  the  programme." 

"  Stop  that,  Finch,"  said  detective  Kelly.  "  Young 
man,  do  not  commit  yourself  by  answering  questions. 
The  court  is  the  only  authority  that  can  compel  you  to 
do  that.  The  first  thing  you  should  do  is  to  obtain 
counsel." 

Meanwhile  Finch  ripped  open  the  breast-pocket  and 
pulled  out  the  package  containing  the  bank-notes.  "  Well," 
he  said,  "  if  you  ain't  the  innocentest  young  man  I  ever  seen. 
What  do  you  think  of  this,  Kelly  ?  Hurrah  !  Hurrah !  We've 
got  'em  !  " 

"  1  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  it,"  said  Kelly.  "  What 
have  you  got  to  say  about  it,  young  man  ? " 

Arthur  was  pale  as  death  and  his  eyes  were  almost  start- 
ing from  his  head.  His  lips  quivered  and  his  nails  were 
driven  into  the  palms  of  his  hands  by  the  force  with  which 
he  clasped  them.  "  So  help  me  heaven,"  he  said,  "  I  know 
nothing  of  this.  When  I  came  into  this  room,  since  when  I 
remember  nothing,  those  notes  were  not  on  my  person.  I 
seem  to  be  dreaming." 

"  You  will  find  it  no  dream,"  said  Finch,  stepping  up  to 
him  and  unbuttoning  his  vest.  Slipping  his  hand  into  the 
side  pocket,  he  pulled  out  a  Bank-of-England  note  for 
one  hundred  pounds — No.  6581  D — with  five  sovereigns,  and 
laid  them  on  the  table.  "  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Kel- 
ly .?  "  said  Finch. 

Kelly  shook  his  head.     "  Don't  know,"  he  said.     Whis- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  187 

pering  to  Finch,  he  said:  "This  is    a  put-up  job,  though 
the  young  fellow  may  have  to  suffer  for  it." 

Arthur  could  stand  no  more.  The  excitement  had  re- 
stored him  to  his  senses.  He  saw  in  all  its  bearings  the 
dreadful  situation  in  which  he  was  placed,  and  covering  his 
face  with  his  hands  he  sobbed  like  a  child.  It  was  ten 
minutes  before  he  could  speak,  and  then  he  said,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice  :  "  I  don't  see  why  you  desire  to  put  this  dis- 
grace on  me ;  I  am  as  innocent  as  the  child  unborn.  How 
this  has  been  done  or  who  had  any  reason  for  injuring  me, 
I  can  not  imagine,  but  it  means  moral,  if  not  actual  death 
to  my  mother,  my  affianced  wife,  and  myself.  I  see  no  way 
out  of  it  and  nothing  but  ruin  and  a  blighted  name  be- 
fore me." 

"We  might  as  well  finish  the  search,"  said  detective 
Finch,  ''and  then  go  for  the  coroner."  Arthur  allowed  him- 
self to  be  searched,  but  nothing  more  was  found  on  his 
person.  He  stood  like  one  perfectly  stunned,  and  then 
sat  down  overcome  with  grief  and  buried  his  head  in  his 
hands. 

Calling  a  policeman,  the  detectives  placed  him  in  charge  of 
the  house,  and  said  to  Arthur  :  "  Now,  sir,  you  must  go 
with  us  to  police  headquarters.  We  will  not  put  irons  on 
you,  so  come  quietly  and  you  will  get  through  the  matter  all 
the  sooner."  By  this  time  it  was  eleven  o'clock  and  the 
fog  was  thicker  than  ever,  but  a  carriage  was  finally  found 
to  take  the  party  to  Bow  street. 

Next  morning  the  newspapers  astounded  London  by  the 
following  announcement  :  "  We  are  happy  to  say  that  de- 
tectives Kelly  and  Finch  have  at  last  by  great  perseverance 
unearthed  the  robber  who  stole  the  twelve  thousand  pounds 
in  Bank-of- En  gland  notes  from  the  banking-house  of  Childs 
&  Co.,  some  five  weeks  ago.  The  money  was  all  recovered 
(  with  the  exception  of  one  five-hundred-pound  note — No. 
3450  A  )  from  the  person  of  the  robber,  who,  it  appears 
was  a  clerk  in  the  bank.     There  is  a  tragedy  connected  with 


1 88  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

this  affair  to  which  it  is  not  deemed  prudent  to  give  pub- 
licity at  present,  but  it  will  be  known  in  a  few  days."  Of 
course,  all  London  was  agape  to  obtain  more  news  of  the 
matter,  but  there  it  will  have  to  rest  for  a  time. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

When  the  senior  partner  of  Childs's  &  Co.'s  bank  was  at 
breakfast  the  morning  after  Arthur  Merton's  arrest,  he  was 
surprised  to  find  in  the  newspaper  an  account  of  the  pro- 
ceedings, and  wondered  which  of  his  employes  was  impli- 
cated, as  no  name  was  mentioned. 

As  soon  as  possible  he  rode  to  the  bank,  where  detect- 
ives Kelly  and  Finch  awaited  him,  and  the  former  handed 
him  the  package  of  notes.  "  There,  sir,  is  your  money,"  he 
said,  "minus  a  five-hundred-pound  note  which  has  disap- 
peared and  sixteen  sovereigns  which  have  been  spent.  We 
captured  the  robber  with  the  notes  sewed  up  in  his  jacket, 
and  you  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  he  is  no  other 
than  your  confidential  clerk,  Arthur  Merton." 

The  banker  was  horror-stricken,  and  exclaimed,  as  he 
sank  back  in  his  chair  :  "  What  a  calamity  !  I  would  rather 
have  lost  all  the  money  than  had  matters  turn  out  in  this 
way.  But,  no  "  he  continued,  "  it  can  not  be  ;  there  is  some 
mistake.  It  is  impossible  that  Merton  can  have  done  this  ; 
he  is  truth  and  honesty  personified." 

"I  hope  it  may  turn  out  as  you  say,  sir,"  said  detective 
Kelly,  "but  it  looks  badly  now." 

"  So  badly,"  said  detective  Finch,  "  that  he  will  be  lucky 
to  save  his  neck.  There's  a  murder  in  the  case,  and  in  my 
opinion  he's  the  author  of  it." 

The  cold  perspiration  stood  on  the  banker's  forehead. 
He  was  quite  overcome  with  the  intelligence.  As  soon  as 
he  could  command  himself  he  asked  the  detectives  to  give 
him  the  particulars. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  189 

Kelly  commenced  his  story  by  saying  that  two  weeks 
after  the  robbery  he  had  received  an  anonymous  letter  in- 
forming him  that  the  writer  knew  where  the  notes  w^ere 
and  would  give  up  the  thief  for  a  certain  consideration.  An 
answer  sent  to  the  place  indicated  led  to  an  interview  with 
a  certain  person  and  an  appointment  to  meet  the  informer 
in  Trafalgar  Square.  When  arrived  at  the  spot  and  sta- 
tioned in  front  of  the  house  indicated  the  detectives  had  not 
long  to  wait  before  Arthur  Merton  staggered  out  of  the  house 
apparently  under  the  influence  of  liquor.  "  That  is  your 
man,"  said  the  informer,  who  immediately  disappeared,"and," 
added  Kelly,  "  we  have  never  seen  him  since  and  should 
hardly  recognize  him  if  we  met  him."  He  then  detailed 
the  particulars,  with  which  the  reader  is  already  familiar. 

"There  is  more  in  this  affair  than  meets  the  eye,"  con- 
tinued Kelly,  "  and  I  think  it  doubtful  if  Merton  killed  that 
girl,  although  he  professes  to  know  her  name." 

"  Me  and  my  partner  don't  agree  on  all  the  points  of  this 
case,"  said  detective  Finch.  "  I  thought  Merton  was  play- 
ing a  part,  but  that  is  only  my  opinirn  and  won't  count  be- 
fore a  court." 

*'  I  don't  intend  to  prosecute  him,"  said  the  banker,  "as 
I  have  recovered  most  of  the  money.  If  Merton  can  give 
any  plausible  explanation  of  how  he  came  by  the  notes  I 
am  willing  to  believe  him." 

''  You  forget  the  charge  of  murder,  sir,  that  will  probably 
be  made  against  him,"  said  Kelly. 

"  May  God  preserve  him,"  said  the  banker,  "  and  have 
pity  on  his  poor  mother,  who  can  never  stand  such  a  shock  ! 
Why  is  there  so  much  unhappiness  in  this  world,  and  what 
has  that  innocent  woman  done  to  meet  such  a  dreadful 
punishment  ;  or  what  has  her  sen  done  that  he  should  be 
the  victim  of  such  a  plot  ?  " 

"  He's  killed  a  woman  and  stolen  a  lot  of  money,"  said 
Finch. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  the  banker.     "  It's  an  infernal 


I  go  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

conspiracy,  and  I  will  never  believe  in  Merton's  guilt  until 
he  acknowledges  it.     Where  is  he  now  ? " 

"At  present,"  said  Kelly,  "  he  is  at  the  Bow  Street  police 
headquarters,  waiting  the  result  of  the  coroner's  inquest." 

"Then,  I  must  go  and  see  him,"  exclaimed  the  banker, 
and  accompanied  by  the  detectives  he  proceeded  to  the 
house  of  detention  and  was  accorded  an  interview  with 
Arthur  Merton. 

When  Arthur  was  confronted  by  his  employer,  the  lat- 
ter's  heart  ached  at  the  woe-begone  appearance  of  the  young 
man.  His  once  bright  eyes  were  dim,  and  had  a  most  pain- 
ful expression,  and  he  stared  at  the  banker  as  if  demented. 
The  latter  held  out  his  hand,  exclaiming  :  "  My  poor  boy, 
this  is  a  vile  conspiracy  against  you,  and  you  shall  not  stay 
here  a  day  longer,  if  I  can  prevent  it." 

Tears  stood  in  Arthur's  eyes,  and  his  lips  quivered.  "  If 
you  can  give  me  your  hand,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  "  I  do  not 
despair,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  I  am  innocent  of  the 
charges  brought  against  me.  I  went  on  an  errand  of  mercy 
and  have  been  entrapped.  I  see  it  all  now,  although  I  could 
not  at  first  realize  it.  I  must  have  been  chloroformed,  as 
for  hours  I  could  not  collect  my  senses.  Does  my  poor 
mother,  or  does  Ronald  Pentland  know  of  this,  for  they  will 
be  dreadfully  affected.  My  mother  has  suffered,  oh,  so  much ; 
and  now,  to  have  me  accused  of  crime,  it  will  kill  her." 

"Cheer  up,  Arthur,"  said  the  banker,  "we  will  pull  you 
through  even  if  Satan  himself  has  conspired  against  you  ; 
but  give  me  the  particulars  of  your  story." 

"As  nearly  as  possible  I  will,  sir,"  replied  Arthur;  "but 
I  was  unconscious  part  of  the  time  while  in  that  house  near 
which  I  was  arrested,  and  there  are,  therefore,  blanks  in  my 
recollections.  Worse  than  all  the  rest,  I  have  lost  a  letter 
which  would  have  exonerated  me,  and  which  I  read  to  my 
mother  just  before  leaving  her." 

"  It  is  fortunate  you  read  it  to  her,"  said  the  banker, 
"for  it  will  be  good  evidence." 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  I9I 

Arthur  then  told  the  whole  story  as  near  as  he  could 
remember. 

"Bad  enough,"  said  the  banker,  when  Arthur  had  fin- 
ished, "  a  clever  piece  of  villainy.    What  enemy  have  you  ? " 

"  Not  one  that  I  know  of,"  replied  Arthur;  "  if  I  had  an 
enemy,  I  might  form  some  idea  of  the  motives  in  this  case. 
The  evidence  against  me  seems  very  strong,  and  sympathy 
for  me  will  not  establish  my  innocence.  Now,  my  dear  sir, 
do  me  the  favor  to  go  and  see  my  mother  ;  tell  her  to  have 
patience,  for  of  course  she  will  never  believe  that  I  have 
been  guilty  of  crime." 

"  I  will  call  at  once  and  see  your  mother,"  said  the  bank- 
er, "  and  do  what  I  can  to  comfort  her  ;  meanwhile,  trust 
in  God,  and  all  will  be  well  in  the  end." 

Ten  minutes  after  the  banker's  departure  Ronald  was 
announced,  who  rushed  forward  and,  clasping  Arthur  in  his 
arms,  exclaimed  :  "  What  does  all  this  mean  ?  I  got  a  glimpse 
of  the  matter  in  a  morning  paper,  but  it  was  so  absurd  I  could 
make  nothing  of  it." 

"It  means,"  said  Arthur,  "that  you  will  have  to  cease 
recognizing  your  old  friend  unless  Heaven  comes  to  my  as- 
sistance and  saves  me  from  a  felon's  cell.  What  a  blow 
this  will  be  to  my  poor  mother  just  as  a  gleam  of  sunshine 
had  come  to  illuminate  her  existence,  and  she  was  beginning 
to  recover  her  spirits !  This  will  be  the  finishing  stroke  to 
us  both.  Listen  to  my  story,  Ronald  ;  we  shall  not  see  each 
other  again,  for  your  parents  will  not  consent  to  your  meet- 
ing one  who  will  so  soon  occupy  a  felon's  cell." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  exclaimed  Roland,  much  excited,  *'  we  will 
move  heaven  and  earth  until  you  are  free.  I  will  go  imme- 
diately to  my  parents,  and  you  will  find  that  you  have  true 
friends  in  them." 

Arthur  then  told  Ronald  his  story,  at  which  the  latter 
seemed  much  astonished.  "  I  see  the  difficulties  in  your 
way,  Arthur,"  he  said,  "but  you  will  have  the  best  counsel, 
and  your  father  will  spend  any  amount  of  money  to  free  you 


192 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


from  this  charge.  I  will  go  at  once  to  Lyneham,  and  tell 
your  father  all  the  particulars  ;  keep  up  a  brave  heart,  I  will 
see  you  again  in  a  day  or  two,"  and  with  an  affectionate 
farewell  he  quitted  the  room. 

Once  more  left  to  himself  Arthur  gave  way  to  gloomy 
forebodings.  Dinner  was  brought  to  him,  but  he  left  it  un- 
touched on  the  table. 

In  the  mean  time  the  banker  had  driven  to  Mrs.  Merton's 
lodgings  in  Cavendish  Square,  and  when  shown  to  her  par- 
lor found  the  lady  anxiously  awaiting  him.  "  Mr.  Childs,'* 
she  exclaimed,  "what  has  happened  to  Arthur  ?  I  have  been 
up  all  night  watching  for  him  and  hearing  nothing." 

The  banker  made  a  desperate  effort  to  be  calm,  but  the 
fond  mother  noticed  his  embarrassment.  "  My  dear  madam," 
he  began,  then  his  voice  quivered,  "  you  mothers  are  all  alike, 
and  would  like  to  keep  sons  in  leading-strings  for  life.  There 
must  be  a  beginning  when  a  young  man  stays  out  all  night, 
and  Arthur  has  taken  the  initiative.  He  sent  me  to  tell  you 
all  about  it." 

*'  Then  he  is  safe,  thank  God  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Merton. 
*'  I  feared  he  had  injured  himself." 

"  Arthur  has  met  with  a  little  accident  " — here  the  mother 
again  grew  excited — '*  but  you  are  too  brave  a  woman  to  mind 
that ;  boys  will  have  accidents,  but  Arthur  has  no  broken 
bones,  and  is  in  no  bodily  pain,  so  dry  your  tears  ;  "  yet  he 
felt  this  was  an  impossibility,  for  what  he  had  to  tell  would 
wring  her  heart  with  anguish. 

Julia  regarded  the  banker  with  anxious  eyes.  "  Speak," 
she  said,  "  and  tell  me  what  has  happened.  Do  not  keep 
me  longer  in  suspense.  I  can  endure  anything  better  than 
that." 

"  Then,  listen  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Childs.  Arthur  is  sound 
in  mind  and  body,  but  is  in  temporary  difficulties  v/hich  will 
subject  him  to  some  inconvenience.  It  is  a  case  of  law,  and 
you  know  the  law's  delays  are  proverbial.  A  great  mistake 
has  been  made,  and  Arthur  has  been  arrested  for  some  other 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  193 

person's  offenses,  but  it  will  all  be  rectified.     It  is  only  a 
matter  of  a  little  time." 

Julia  was  astounded.  "  Arthur  arrested  !  "  she  cried,"  what 
harm  could  he  have  done  ?  "  and  she  sobbed  convulsively. 

"  Now,  my  dear  madam,  you  will  see  the  folly  of  taking 
things  so  seriously  when  I  tell  you  that  Arthur  is  charged 
with  taking  money  from  my  bank,  and  you  know  as  well  as 
I  do  the  im.possibility  of  his  having  done  so." 

A  wild  shriek  rang  through  the  house,  and  Julia  fell  life- 
less to  the  floor. 

"  There  !  "  exclaimed  the  banker,  "  I  have  killed  her  with 
my  blundering !  I  am  not  fit  for  such  a  business  and  should 
have  employed  a  woman.  What  a  fool  I  am  !  And  I  thought 
I  was  all  the  time  skillfully  leading  her  up  to  the  subject." 

These  thoughts  flashed  through  his  mind  as  he  pulled 
frantically  at  the  bell  and  was  rewarded  by  the  sight  of  two 
maid  servants,  who  rushed  in  and  conveyed  their  mistress  to 
an  adjoining  room,  while  the  banker  summoned  the  nearest 
physician. 

The  same  evening  Ronald  reached  home.  He  found  his 
parents  at  dinner,  and  after  the  first  salutations,  told  them 
of  the  terrible  events  that  had  occurred  in  London. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pentland  were  greatly  shocked,  and  after 
the  former  had  read  the  printed  account  which  his  son  gave 
him,  he  said  to  Ronald  :  ''  This  is  a  bad  business  for  Arthur. 
How  could  he  possibly  have  become  mixed  up  in  such  a 
detestable  affair  ?  " 

"  Why,  father  !  "  exclaimed  Ronald,  "  You  certainly  do 
not  suspect  Arthur  to  be  guilty." 

''It  is  not  what  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Pentland,  "but  what 
the  world  will  think  ;  where  there  is  so  much  smoke  there 
must  be  some  fire.  I  knew  Arthur  as  a  fine  boy  with  great 
natural  talent  and  generous  impulses,  but  I  can  not  tell  what 
effect  London  life  may  have  had  upon  him.  I  should  be 
sorry  if  you  should  ever  have  such  a  charge  brought  against 
you,  Ronald,  for  even  if  you  were  innocent  the  world  would 
13 


194  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

be  no  more  lenient  to  you  than  to  him.  Arthur  must  prove 
his  innocence,  and  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  how  he  will  be 
able  to  do  so,  the  evidence  seems  to  be  so  strong  against 
him.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  make  yourself  too  prominent 
in  this  matter,  my  son,  for,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  I  know 
that  some  of  the  odium  of  such  a  crime  will  attach  itself  to 
a  too  zealous  friend  ;  therefore,  be  cautious  in  your  inter- 
course with  Arthur,  and  let  what  you  do  in  his  behalf  be 
sub  rosa.  Your  mother  and  I  will  do  all  in  our  power  to 
console  poor  Mrs.  Merton." 

"  Why,  father  !  "  exclaim.ed  Ronald,  "  you  astonish  me. 
I  thought  you  would  be  the  first  to  go  to  Arthur's  assistance, 
and  would  stand  by  him  to  the  end." 

''  So  I  will  stand  by  him,"  said  the  squire,  "unless  I  find 
he  is  a  criminal,  and  then  I  will  drop  him  ;  he  should  never 
have  placed  himself  in  a  position  so  compromising.  But  we 
will  get  ready  to  start  for  London.  Go  at  once  and  see  that 
brute  his  father,  and  tell  him  what  you  know  and  give  him 
this  advice  from  me  to  employ  the  best  counsel,  and  not  to 
spare  expense,  as  his  son's  life  may  depend  upon  it." 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  the  squire  and  Mrs.  Pent- 
land  proceeded  in  the  train  to  London,  while  Ronald  de- 
parted for  Lyneham,  where  he  arrived  at  half-past  ten  and 
found  Mr.  Merton  still  in  his  office.  Ronald,  knowing  how 
little  the  manufacturer  cared  for  his  son,  came  at  once  to 
the  point  and  related  the  story  of  Arthur's  mishaps  at  full 
length. 

Mr.  Merton  listened  quietly  to  the  recital.  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  "  I  saw  some  allusion  to  the  affair  in  the  paper  this 
evening.  Well,  he'll  have  to  hang,  for  it's  not  worth  while 
to  try  and  boost  up  such  a  fellow  as  that." 

Ronald  was  astonished  at  Merton's  coarse  brutality,  but 
delivered  his  father's  message.  "  Did  your  father  say  that  ? " 
said  Merton.  "  Well,  I  suppose  it  is  the  thing  to  do,  but 
that  fellow  Arthur  has  upset  all  my  plans  in  life — plans  that 
I  was  foolish  enough  to  rely  on  him  to  carry  out.'* 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  I95 

Ronald  then  told  Merton  that  he  should  return  to  Lon- 
don that  night  by  the  midnight  train,  and  asked  if  he  could 
do  anything  for  him. 

Merton  then  wrote  a  note  to  his  attorney  in  London, 
authorizing  him  to  employ  two  of  the  most  eminent  bar- 
risters in  the  city  to  conduct  the  defense.  "  I  can  not  go 
to  London  myself  just  now,"  he  said,  "  and  would  be  glad 
if  your  father  would  confer  with  my  attorney  for  me." 

Ronald  wondered  if  it  were  possible  for  his  own  father  to 
act  as  Merton  did  under  similar  circumstances,  and  taking 
the  letter  bade  Mr.  Merton  good-night. 

Next  morning  saw  him  at  the  attorney's  office,  where  he 
delivered  his  letter. 

The  attorney,  after  studying  up  the  case,  retained  the 
eminent  barristers  Messrs  Prosper  and  Fairchild  to  conduct 
the  defense. 

Ronald's  conscience  smote  him  when  he  remembered  his 
disgraceful  interviews  with  the  scoundrel  Briggs,  who  had 
so  cleverly  worked  upon  his  feelings  and  led  him  to  the  very 
verge  of  crime.  Ronald  felt  certain  that  Briggs  was  at  the 
bottom  of  all  this  dreadful  business,  but  the  thought  that 
the  latter  might  make  it  appear  that  he,  Ronald,  was  an 
accomplice  in  the  affair,  kept  him  from  acting  as  he  should 
have  done. 

So  Ronald  resolved  to  do  the  next  best  thing,  and  act 
as  Arthur's  friend  all  through  the  case. 

The  squire  and  Mrs.  Pentland  on  arriving  in  London 
drove  straight  to  Cavendish  Square  and  secured  rooms  in 
the  same  house  where  Mrs.  Merton  was  residing. 

They  found  the  poor  lady  in  bed  with  a  high  fever  and 
quite  out  of  her  head. 

The  attending  physician  had  heard  all  about  the  charge 
against  Arthur,  and  was  prepared  to  treat  the  case  under- 
standingly. 

Although  London  is  so  large  that,  in  the  words  of  the 
Frenchman,  it  has  *'  ceased  to  be  a  city  and  become  a  vast 


196  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

province,"  yet  there  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  an 
event  like  that  we  have  chronicled  would  make  greater  ex- 
citement. The  double  crime  of  robbery  and  murder  was  a 
rare  treat  for  the  lovers  of  the  horrible,  so  that  the  city  was 
on  the  qui  vive  for  all  the  details.  The  mystery  of  the  crime, 
the  respectable  position  of  the  accused,  and  the  incidents, 
which  as  usual  were  much  exaggerated  by  the  newspapers, 
gave  the  affair  unusual  zest.  London  had  eclipsed  herself, 
and  the  report  of  the  coroner's  inquest  over  the  body  of  the 
woman  supposed  to  be  named  Charlotte  Foster  had  added 
much  to  the  sensation.  The  jury  found  that  the  deceased 
had  come  to  her  death  from  violence  at  the  hands  of  some 
person  or  persons  unknown. 

The  testimony  of  the  detectives  went  to  show  that  the 
deceased  must  have  been  dead  some  time  when  they  saw 
the  body,  and  that  Arthur  Merton  had  only  been  in  the 
house  for  a  few  moments  prior  to  his  arrest. 

Arthur's  evidence  was  manly  and  straightforward,  and 
the  fact  of  his  handkerchief  having  been  tied  around  the 
victim's  neck  did  not  convince  the  jury  that  he  had  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  murder. 

The  verdict  of  the  jury  relieved  Arthur  somewhat  from 
the  odium  of  the  woman's  death,  but  people  prefer  to  believe 
evil  against  a  man  unless  he  can  prove  his  innocence,  so  that 
although  Arthur  had  escaped  a  trial  for  murder,  many  peo- 
ple believed  him  to  be  guilty. 

The  chances  were  at  one  time  that  Arthur  would  escape 
altogether,  for  the  firm  of  Childs  &  Co.  determined  not  to 
prosecute.  The  senior  partner  was  convinced  that  the  whole 
thing  was  a  plot  to  implicate  the  young  man  by  the  real  thief, 
but  all  the  bankers  protested  e7i  masse  against  such  sentimen- 
tality, which  would  tend  to  destroy  all  security  of  employers 
against  robbers.  Such  a  pressure  was  accordingly  brought 
to  bear  upon  Childs  &  Co.  that  they  felt  compelled  to  let  the 
law  take  its  course. 

Arthur  Merton  was  accordingly  indicted  for  the  robbery 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  1 97 

of  twelve  thousand  pounds  sterling  from  the  banking-house 
of  Childs  &  Co.,  and  was  committed  to  Newgate  to  await 
his  trial. 

Mrs.  Merton  had  received  such  a  shock  on  hearing  of 
her  son's  arrest  that  it  seemed  doubtful  if  she  would  ever 
recover  from  it.  She  lay  in  bed  consumed  with  fever  and 
carefully  nursed  by  her  friend  Mrs.  Pentland. 

Fortunately,  Julia  was  insensible  to  most  that  was  going 
on  and  it  seemed  from  appearances  that  she  would  soon  be 
free  from  trouble  and  find  rest  in  heaven. 

Her  physician  thought  she  might  possibly  recover  from 
this  attack,  though  at  the  expense  of  her  reason,  and 
that  she  would  remain  oblivious  to  all  that  had  taken 
place. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Vernon  had  seen  in  the  newspapers  an  ac- 
count of  the  robbery  and  murder,  and  was  of  couse  dread- 
fully shocked.  He  could  not  believe  Arthur  guilty,  but  he 
saw  nothing  but  misery  to  his  darling  daughter,  whose  love 
for  the  young  man  had  now  become  the  mainspring  of  her 
existence.  He  sedulously  kept  all  newspapers  out  of  his 
daughter's  way  and  cautioned  the  housekeeper  on  the  sub- 
ject. His  own  grief  was  so  great  that  his  daughter  began 
to  notice  it,  and  insisted  that  he  was  not  well  and  should 
send  for  the  family  physician. 

As  the  days  went  by  and  she  did  not  hear  from  Arthur, 
Elsie  could  endure  it  no  longer.  She  said  to  her  father  : 
"  Papa,  I  have  not  heard  from  Arthur  for  more  than  a  week ; 
do  you  think  anything  can  have  happened  to  him  ?  I  am  so 
unhappy  that  I  can  not  sleep.  I  notice  that  you  too  look 
worried." 

You  silly  child,"  said  her  father,  "  to  worry  yourself  about 
trifles  when  there  are  so  many  serious  matters  in  life  to  per- 
plex us.  Arthur's  mother  is  ill— so  ill  that  Mrs.  Pentland 
has  gone  to  London  to  nurse  her.  Arthur,  no  doubt,  has  had 
his  hands  full,  and  has  no  time  to  write." 

"No,"  said  Elsie,  decidedly,  "that's  not  it ;  he  certainly 


198  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

could  find  time  to  write  me  a  line.  Why  can  not  I  go  up  to 
London  and  help  nurse  Mrs.  Merton  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  can,"  replied  her  father,  "  after  a  while, 
but  just  at  present  you  might  be  in  the  way,"  and  so  he  put 
her  off  from  day  to  day,  while  the  poor  child  fretted  so  much 
at  not  hearing  from  her  lover  that  she  looked  like  a  droop- 
ing lily. 

Who  could  see  the  end  of  all  this  misery  ?  Death  had 
not  yet  laid  his  hand  on  any  of  those  most  deeply  interested, 
but  who  could  tell  how  soon  would  come  his  dread  summons 
to  still  loving  hearts  forever  ?  As  a  general  thing,  people 
look  upon  death  with  horror  as  one  who  comes  to  tear  them 
away  from  a  beautiful  world  and  send  them  to  a  world  we 
know  not  of,  but  if  the  truth  were  known  death  comes  often 
in  the  guise  of  a  friend  to  relieve  us  from  pain  and  misery, 
and  take  us  from  a  state  of  existence  where  we  meet  with 
neither  sympathy  nor  succor. 

V/e  will  pass  over  Arthur  Merton's  trial  as  rapidly  as 
possible,  as  there  was  nothing  in  the  evidence  to  bring  any 
consolation.  Arthur  spent  a  month  in  Newgate.  His  coun- 
sel were  thoroughly  familiar  with  his  case  and  believed  him 
innocent.  The  evidence,  it  is  true,  was  all  on  the  side  of  the 
crown,  but  they  hoped  something  would  occur  to  throw  more 
light  upon  the  subject  than  was  at  present  visible. 

Everything  had  been  done  to  find  the  man  who  had  fig- 
ured so  mysteriously  in  the  bedchamber,  but  without  avail, 
and  the  lawyers  went  into  court  depending  only  on  their 
professional  skill  to  win  a  case  in  which  there  seemed  so  lit- 
tle room  for  argument.  A  judge  once  remarked  of  a  brill- 
iant advocate  that  his  oratory  convinced  him  against  his 
will,  but  unfortunately  one  well-proved  circumstance  brought 
forward  by  the  attorney-general  was  more  convincing  than 
all  the  oratory  in  the  world.  Facts  are  like  bomb-shells 
which  destroy  the  ship,  while  oratory  is  the  grape-shot  which 
only  riddles  the  hull  and  cuts  the  rigging. 

When  the  case  of  Arthur  Merton  was  called  for  trial  the 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


199 


court  was  crowded.  Three  judges  were  on  the  bench,  and 
the  opposing  counsel  were  all  in  their  places.  The  facts 
as  already  given  by  detectives  Kelly  and  Finch  were  once 
more  rehearsed,  and  all  the  cross-questioning  of  Arthur's 
counsel,  could  not  make  them  vary  their  statements.  There 
were  no  witnesses  to  prove  extenuating  circumstances. 

Finally  Arthur  was  allowed  to  make  a  statement,  which 
was  listened  to  in  breathless  silence  by  the  assembled  throng. 

The  prisoner's  appearance  was  greatly  in  his  favor,  and 
the  prevailing  opinion  seemed  to  be  that  Arthur  was  the  vic- 
tim of  a  conspiracy.  When  asked  to  produce  the  note  he 
claimed  to  have  received  from  Charlotte  Foster,  asking  him 
to  come  to  her  assistance,  he  replied  that  it  had  been  taken 
from  his  person,  while  he  was  under  the  influence  of  chlo- 
roform, and  the  bank-notes  fastened  to  his  clothing.  The 
absence  of  the  note  from  the  woman  was  prejudicial  to 
his  case,  so  that  he  made  no  impression  on  the  judges  by 
his  testimony. 

The  argument  of  the  counsel  for  the  prisoner  was  quite 
a  literary  gem,  but  unfortunately  there  was  no  evidence  to 
sustain  it,  and  the  crown  counsel  brought  forward  such  an 
array  of  facts  that  it  was  impossible  to  refute  them. 

The  counsel  for  the  accused  expatiated  on  the  youth  of 
the  prisoner,  on  the  improbability  of  his  committing  such  a 
crime,  owing  to  his  high  character,  of  his  reverence  and  af- 
fection for  his  mother,  at  that  moment  lying  at  death's  door 
and  whose  life  depended  on  the  acquittal  of  her  innocent 
son.  Finally,  the  learned  counsel  made  an  eloquent  appeal 
to  the  jury,  which  affected  everybody  in  the  court-room,  and 
sat  down  amid  the  applause  of  the  audience. 

This  applause  was  promptly  checked  by  order  of  the 
court,  and  a  solemn  silence  ensued, 

Then  the  crown  counsel,  with  solemn  mein,  addressed 
the  jury. 

He  reviewed  the  evidence  critically,  dwelt  upon  the  fact 
of  the  wealth  and  social  standing  of  the  prisoner's  relatives 


200  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

which  rendered  such  a  crime  as  he  had  been  guilty  of 
doubly  odious.  It  would  be  well  for  the  jury  to  confine 
themselves  to  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  not  be  led  away 
by  the  sophistry  of  eminent  barristers,  whose  business  it  was 
to  make  the  worse  appear  the  better  side,  and  who  worked 
themselves  to  such  a  pitch  of  enthusiasm  as  almost  to  be- 
lieve the  innocence  of  their  client,  and  in  their  zeal  for  his 
interests  forget  what  was  due  to  the  people. 

"The  jury  may  remember,"  he  continued,  "how  once 
there  was  an  angel  named  Lucifer,  who  rebelled  against 
God  and  tried  to  subvert  the  laws  of  heaven.  He  was  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  the  angels,  and  but  for  the  power  of 
God  would  have  overturned  the  universe.  Lucifer  was 
tried,  found  guilty,  and  thrust  into  the  bottomless  pit,  where 
he  will  have  an  eternity  to  reflect  upon  his  sins. 

"  Many  of  Lucifer's  followers  on  earth  are  beautiful  like 
their  great  prototype,  but  they  must  be  taught  that  they  can 
no  more  disobey  the  laws  of  the  land,  which  are  founded  on 
God's  ordinances,  than  Lucifer  could  disobey  the  laws  of 
heaven. 

"  I  ask  the  jury  to  decide  on  the  evidence  submitted  to 
them,  and  not  be  led  astray  by  sophistry  and  flowery  re- 
marks better  suited  for  the  ears  of  silly  women  than  for  an 
intelligent  British  jury." 

The  learned  counsel  concluded  his  remarks  amid  pro- 
found silence. 

The  judge  commenced  his  charge  to  the  jury  by  saying 
that  this  was  one  of  the  most  peculiar  cases  that  had  ever 
come  under  his  observation.  Here  was  a  young  man,  with 
everything  in  life  to  make  him  happy,  of  a  wealthy  family 
and  a  good  reputation,  accused  of  the  crime  of  robbery,  and 
with  a  portion  of  the  stolen  property  found  on  his  person. 

"In  a  case  of  this  kind  there  is  but  one  course  to  pursue. 
The  jury  must  be  governed  by  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  if 
in  their  opinion  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  is  the  victim  of  a 
conspiracy,  they  must  acquit  him. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  201 

"  The  jury  should  not  be  influenced  by  the  special  plead- 
ing of  counsel  for  or  against  the  accused.  Too  often  justice 
is  defrauded  by  the  flowery  oratory  of  men  of  great  ability, 
who  know  how  to  appeal  to  the  feehngs  of  men.  In  the 
present  trial  we  have  had  a  sample  of  the  eloquence  of  two 
opposing  counsel,  each  viewing  the  matter  from  a  different 
standpoint, 

"  The  jury  should  not  allow  themselves  to  be  led  away  by 
the  arguments,  but  should  take  the  law  and  the  facts.  The 
facts  are  already  in  your  possession,  and,  I  will  state  the  law 
in  the  case,"  The  judge  then  laid  down  the  law  to  the  jury, 
and  exhorted  them  not  to  allow  their  feelings  to  carry  them 
away  from  the  facts  of  the  case.  "  Crime  is  on  the  increase 
in  the  land,  and  justice  should  be  the  watchword  of  a  Brit- 
ish jury,  but,  above  all  things,  justice  should  be  tempered 
with  mercy.  The  jury  should  see  that  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar  receives  the  benefit  of  any  doubts  they  may  entertain, 
and  may  Heaven  guide  your  deliberations." 

There  was  a  painful  silence  in  the  court-room  while  the 
jurors  were  moving  out  to  the  room  appointed  for  their  de- 
liberations. Every  one  tried  to  gain  some  idea  from  the  faces 
of  the  jury  of  what  impression  had  been  made  on  them  by 
the  judge's  charge,  but  no  sign  could  be  seen  on  those  stolid 
English  faces  that  would  indicate  their  feelings. 

The  jury  were  out  four  hours  with  no  sign  of  coming  to 
an  agreement,  the  judges  and  the  lawyers  had  retired  from 
the  court-room,  but  many  spectators  still  remained  hoping 
that  the  jury  v/ould  soon  finish  their  labors  and  acquit  the 
prisoner.  At  last  word  came  that  the  jury  had  agreed  upon 
a  verdict,  the  judges  and  lawyers  resumed  their  seats,  and 
the  members  of  the  jury  filed  into  the  room. 

In  response  to  the  question.  Have  you  agreed  upon  a  ver- 
dict ?  the  foreman  of  the  jury  replied,  "We  have."  To  the 
question  Is  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?  the 
forem^an  answered  solemnly,  "  Guilty." 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  murmur  in  the  room,   then 


202  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

sobs  were  heard  in  different  directions,  and  one  woman 
fainted.  A  voice  exclaimed  :  "  How  unjust !  shame  on  the 
verdict !  " 

"  Silence  in  court,"  shouted  the  crier,  while  the  judge 
ordered  the  arrest  of  all  persons  making  further  manifes- 
tations of  either  approval  or  disapproval. 

When  order  was  restored  the  judge  arose  and  adjourned 
the  court  until  lo  a.  m.  of  the  following  day,  and  ordered 
the  removal  of  the  prisoner  until  that  hour. 

Arthur  Merton  had  sat  apparently  unmoved  during  his 
trial.  He  was  pale,  and  his  features  looked  as  if  chiseled 
out  of  marble,  but  there  was  nothing  like  fear  exhibited  in 
his  bearing,  even  when  the  foreman  announced  the  verdict. 
He  seemed  to  be  judging  rather  than  like  one  judged. 

At  the  signal  from  the  officer  of  the  court  he  stepped 
down  and  passed  through  the  throng  without  the  movement 
of  a  muscle  in  his  face.  Arthur  had  undergone  all  the  bit- 
terness of  grief,  and  determined  to  bear  his  misfortunes  like 
a  man  and  defy  the  world. 

There  were  few  in  that  concourse  of  people  who  believed 
Arthur  guilty  of  the  crime  of  which  he  was  accused.  As 
he  passed  along  some  whispered,  ''  We  know  he  is  innocent." 
But  Arthur  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  left  and  seemed 
the  least  unmoved  of  any  of  those  present. 

The  following  morning  the  court  assembled  at  ten  o'clock 
and  the  prisoner  was  again  placed  in  the  dock. 

The  presiding  judge  looked  worn  and  jaded,  as  if  he  had 
passed  through  a  terrible  ordeal.  When  the  prisoner  stood 
up  to  receive  his  sentence  the  judge  addressed  him  as 
follows  : 

*'  Prisoner  at  the  bar,  you  have  had  a  fair  trial  and  the 
benefit  of  eminent  counsel.  The  jury  have  given  close  at- 
tention to  your  case,  and  having  found  you  guilty  of  the 
crime  for  which  you  were  indicted,  it  only  remains  for  the 
court  to  inflict  the  sentence  of  the  law,  which  is  that  you 
be  confined  in  prison  two  years  at  hard  labor,  and  at  the  ex- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  203 

piration  of  that  time  be  transported  to  a  penal  colony  until 
such  time  as  the  authorities  shall  permit  you  to  return  to 
your  native  country.  This  light  penalty  is  inflicted  on  you 
owing  to  your  youth  and  previous  good  reputation." 

Arthur  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  upon  the  judge  while 
he  was  passing  sentence,  and  when  the  latter  had  finished 
left  the  court  in  charge  of  two  policemen  w^ith  the  sympa- 
thies of  all  the  spectators. 

This  feeling  was  so  marked  that  it  afforded  a  partial  sat- 
isfaction to  Arthur,  although  from  that  day  he  was  dead  to 
the  world.  He  was  taken  to  Newgate  and  locked  up  in  a  cell. 

He  had  borne  up  manfully  all  through  the  trial ;  not  a 
tear  had  dimmed  his  eye,  nor  a  muscle  quivered.  He  saw 
from  the  opening  of  the  address  of  the  counsel  for  the 
crown  that  his  chances  of  acquittal  were  slight.  He  noted 
the  stolid  faces  of  the  jury,  men  with  little  intelligence  and 
no  sympathy,  who  were  prepared  to  vote  him  guilty  unless 
he  could  prove  himself  innocent.  He  had  but  two  friends 
present,  Ronald  Pentland  and  the  banker,  the  latter  of  whom 
had  testified  strongly  in  his  favor.  As  for  Squire  Pentland 
he  could  not  help  believing  Arthur  guilty,  since  a  British 
jury  had  so  declared,  and,  as  everybody  knew,  the  system 
of  trial  by  jury  was  the  Palladium  of  a  Briton's  rights.  He 
was  a  conservative  to  the  back-bone  and  possessed  certain 
ideas  which  it  was  impossible  to  change. 

Mr.  Pentland's  absence  from  court  pained  Arthur  more 
than  words  could  express.  "But,  after  all,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, ''  what  does  it  matter  ?  I  am  dead  to  the  world.  Let  me 
bear  my  burden  alone." 

But  when  Arthur  thought  of  Elsie's  grief  at  his  fate,  he 
could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  threw  himself  on  his 
pallet  and  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  He  knew  that 
his  darling  mother  was  lying  very  ill  and  unconcious  of 
what  was  going  on,  and  he  could  only  hope  that  God  might 
relieve  her  by  death  from  the  sufferings  she  would  exper- 
ience in  case  she  realized  that  her  son  was  a  felon. 


204 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


All  that  night  Arthur  prayed,  not  for  himself,  but  for  his 
mother  and  affianced  wife,  that  they  might  not  suffer  for 
the  ills  that  had  befallen  him.  That  night  seemed  to  Arthur 
an  eternity.  What  would  be  the  two  years  of  prison  confine- 
ment and  the  subsequent  exile  from  his  native  land — worse 
than  all,  the  dreadful  association  with  criminals  of  the  vilest 
character  !  Who  can  tell  what  an  innocent  man  must  un- 
dergo under  circumstances  like  those  to  which  Arthur  was 
the  victim  }  If  it  is  dreadful  to  the  guilty,  it  is  worse  than 
a  thousand  deaths  to  the  innocent. 

The  following  day  was  appointed  for  Arthur's  transfer 
to  Millbank  prison,  and  an  hour  previous  to  his  departure 
he  was  informed  by  the  jailer  that  permission  had  been 
given  for  Ronald  Pentland  to  visit  him. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  Arthur, ''  although  the  interview 
will  be  painful  to  us  both,"  and  Ronald  was  accordingly 
shown  to  the  cell.  He  rushed  forward  and  extended  his 
hand,  but  Arthur  did  not  take  it.  '*  No,  Ronald,"  he  said, 
manfully,  "  my  hand  is  that  of  a  felon,  and  I  can  not  give  it 
to  you  until  the  stain  is  washed  out  and  I  stand  before  my 
fellow-men  entirely  relieved  of  this  foul  charge,  with  my  in- 
nocence established  beyond  a  doubt.  I  may  not  live  to 
witness  my  vindication,  but  I  hope  to  see  those  who  have 
led  me  into  my  present  straits  brought  to  justice.  I  have 
failed  to  receive  justice  from  my  fellow-man  but  I  hope  to 
receive  it  from  God." 

Ronald  could  not  refrain  from  tears  as  he  assured  Arthur 
of  his  sympathy.  "  I  know,"  said  Arthur,  "  your  noble  na- 
ture would  not  permit  you  to  believe  in  my  guilt.  You  know 
me  to  be  incapable  of  wrong-doing,  but  what  matters,  it  is 
only  one  man,  more  or  less,  and  a  few  broken  hearts.  But 
tell  me,  how  is  my  poor  mother  ?  " 

"She  is  still  very  low,"  said  Ronald,  "and  the  doctor 
thinks  she  may  never  recover  her  reason." 

"Then,"  said  Arthur,  "she  will  never  know  that  I  am  a 
felon ;  my  only  solace  is  that  we  will  meet  in  heaven.    Now, 


ARTHUR  MERTOK.  205 

Ronald,  good-by.     May  God  bless  you,  and  may  you  never 
feel  such  pangs  as  are  now  piercing  my  heart." 

Ronald  begged  Arthur  to  shake  hands  with  him  at  part- 
ing, but  Arthur  said  :  "  No,  not  until  I  am  pronounced  in- 
nocent. Your  father  thinks  me  guilty ;  tell  him  I  have  re- 
fused to  shake  hands  with  my  oldest  friend,  his  son,  while 
there  was  a  stigma  attached  to  my  name.  Tell  your  dear 
mother  to  be  kind  to  mine.  Mrs.  Pentland  is  the  only  per- 
son on  earth  now  upon  whom  she  can  rely,  now  that  I  am 
gone  from  her.  She  will  not  trouble  anybody  long — when 
she  dies,  lay  her  beneath  the  great  oak  on  the  bank  of  the 
river.  Good-by."  Arthur  then  retired  to  the  farther  end 
of  the  cell  and  threw  himself  upon  his  pallet,  while  Ronald 
took  his  departure  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  his  heart  filled 
with  painful  emotions. 

He  resolved  to  communicate  to  the  police  his  suspicions 
with  regard  to  Bill  Briggs,  but  time  passed  on  and  he  did 
not  do  so.  Bill  had  disappeared,  and  Ronald  was  ignorant 
of  his  whereabouts,  and  then  he  was  afraid  that  suspicion 
would  be  directed  to  himself  on  account  of  his  dealings 
with  that  deceitful  villain.  So  Ronald  quieted  his  con- 
science by  resolving  to  do  everything  in  his  power  to  pro- 
cure a  pardon  for  Arthur. 

That  day,  at  sunset,  Arthur  was  transferred  to  Millbank 
Prison,  and  was  set  to  work  next  day,  a  merciful  proceed- 
ing which  left  the  prisoner  no  time  for  reflection.  His  first 
night  in  prison  was  the  most  dreadful  of  all  Arthur's  trials ; 
it  was  his  farewell  to  the  outer  world,  the  realization  of  all 
his  misery.  He  felt  that  he  would  never  meet  his  mother 
again  on  earth,  that  he  had  parted  forever  from  Elsie — that 
that  sweet  flower  would  perish  in  the  storm  while  the  hand 
that  should  have  shielded  her  was  shackled  in  a  felon's 
cell. 

"  Here,"  he  said  to  himself,  "despair  will  be  my  constant 
companion.  I  shall  even  learn  to  love  it,  and  when  the 
time  comes  for  me  to  leave  these  walls,  I  shall  look  back  on 


2o6  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

them  as  to  a  place  of  refuge  from  the  world's  scorn,  and  shall 
feel  as  if  I  were  leaving  a  home. 

With  spiders  I'll  have  friendship  made, 
And  watch  them  at  their  sullen  trade  ; 
I'll  see  the  mice  by  moonlight  play  ; 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ? 
We'll  be  the  inmates  of  one  place. 
And  I  the  monarch  of  each  race. 

O  God,  that  I  should  thus  view  my  disgrace,  that  I  should 
feel  better  satisfied  to  remain  immured  in  this  dark  hole 
than  to  breathe  the  free  air  with  the  stigma  of  crime  at- 
tached to  my  name !  Even  if  I  regain  my  freedom,  it  will 
come  loaded  with  sighs,  for  who  will  be  left  who  will  know 
me  except  as  a  thief  ?  who  will  be  left  of  those  I  love  ? " 

Thus  Arthur  sat  and  grieved  until  midnight,  and  there 
for  a  time  we  must  leave  him  in  his  doleful  dungeon  pon- 
dering over  man's  inhumanity  to  man,  and  almost  ready  to 
doubt  that  God  is  keeping  watch  over  his  people  on  earth. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Vernon  read  the  newspapers  care- 
fully, and  wrote  to  Ronald  Pentland  to  keep  him  informed 
of  everything  relating  to  Arthur's  case,  so  that  he  had  a  full 
knowledge  of  all  connected  with  the  arrest  and  trial,  but  he 
encountered  great  difficulty  in  concealing  the  matter  from 
Elsie.  When  a  week  passed  and  she  did  not  receive  a  let- 
ter from  Arthur,  she  was  alarmed,  for  fear  something  had 
happened  to  him,  and  Mr.  Vernon  was  obliged  to  practice  a 
little  deception.  He  wrote  to  Ronald  to  send  him  the  fol- 
lowing telegram  :  "  Mrs.  Merton  very  low.  Arthur  not  able 
to  write,  but  quite  well,  though  suffering  much  distress." 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  Elsie,  when  her  father  showed  her 
the  telegram,  *'  how  he  loves  his  mother  !  Would  that  I  could 
be  there  to  help  him  nurse  her !  " 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  20/ 

"Mrs.  Pentland  is  there  to  nurse  her,  my  darling,"  said 
the  rector,  ''  and  she  is  much  more  efficient  than  you  could 
be."  So  another  week  passed,  Elsie  growing  more  restless, 
wandering  constantly  about  the  house  without  apparent  ob- 
ject. "  I  think,"  she  said,  ''Arthur  might  find  time  to  write 
me  a  few  lines." 

"Do  not  be  unjust  to  Arthur,  darling,"  said  the  rector. 
"  Remember  the  relations  between  his  mother  and  himself, 
that  his  heart  and  soul  are  wrapped  up  in  her,  and  that 
while  watching  over  her  he  forgets  everything  else  ;  even 
you,  Elsie,  become  a  secondary  object.  He  can  have  but 
that  one  mother,  and  if  he  should  lose  her  through  any 
neglect  of  his,  life  would  be  but  a  dreary  place  to  him." 
So  the  rector  went  on  making  excuses  for  not  hearing  from 
Arthur  until  life  became  a  burden  to  him,  but  Elsie,  though 
she  listened  to  her  father's  reasoning  and  bore  her  disap- 
pointment as  well  as  she  could,  grew  pale,  ate  nothing,  and 
spent  many  hours  in  tears.  She  was  but  the  shadow  of  her 
former  self,  and  half  the  time  neglected  even  to  feed  her 
doves.  She  would  spend  hours  at  the  knoll  thinking  of 
her  lover,  while  the  doves  would  circle  around  her  and  coo 
at  her  feet  with  scarcely  any  notice  from  her. 

At  last  the  trial  was  over  and  the  sentence  passed,  of 
which  the  rector  was  duly  informed.  And  now  came  for  him 
the  ordeal  he  so  much  dreaded,  and  which  he  hoped  and 
prayed  might  never  come — the  task  of  telling  his  daughter 
the  dreadful  news.  The  morning  after  the  conclusion  of  the 
trial,  Elsie  was  sitting  in  an  easy-chair  in  front  of  a  sea-coal 
fire  in  the  parlor,  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  tears  trick- 
ling through  her  fingers.  It  had  been  five  weeks  since  she 
had  received  a  line  from  Arthur,  and  she  determined  to  make 
her  father  take  her  up  to  London  to  see  for  herself  why 
he  had  not  written.  Ronald  had  not  written  either,  but  that 
she  did  not  expect  after  his  disappointment ;  indeed,  she  did 
not  wish  it.  While  Elsie  was  thinking  all  this  over,  her  father 
came  into  the  room  with  such  a  look  in  his  face,  and  with 


2o8  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

tears  standing  in  his  eyes,  that  she  sprang  to  her  feet  in  alarm 
and  exclaimed  :  *'  Oh,  papa,  dear,  what  is  it  ?  What  dread- 
ful thing  has  happened  ?  " 

He  pressed  her  to  his  breast.  "  My  poor  child,"  he  said, 
"  life  has  no  joy  for  us,  my  dearest  hopes  are  scattered  to  the 
winds." 

"  Is  Arthur's  mother  dead  ?  "  she  inquired,  in  a  trembling 
voice. 

"  Far  worse  than  that,  dear  child.  Call  forth  all  your 
strength  and  courage,  and  pray  God  to  enable  you  to  bear 
the  greatest  calamity  of  your  life  with  submission." 

"  Oh  !  speak,  dear  papa,  and  end  my  suspense  !  "  cried 
Elsie.  "  I  know  you  have  something  dreadful  to  tell  me,  but, 
if  Arthur  is  living,  I  can  bear  anything  else." 

"  Ah,  Elsie,"  he  murmured,  almost  sobbing,  "  that  is  the 
trouble.  Arthur  is  physically  well,  but  lost  to  you.  A  cruel 
edict  of  the  law  has  taken  him  from  you  forever.  He  was  ac- 
cused of  crime,  and  unjustly  found  guilty." 

Sounds  like  thunder  had  been  gathering  in  Elsie's  ears 
since  her  father  commenced  the  last  sentence.  Everything 
grew  dark  around  her,  one  low  cry  came  from  her  lips,  and 
she  slipped  from  her  father's  arms  to  the  floor.  "  My  God  I  " 
he  exclaimed,  "  I  have  killed  her  !  But  death  would  be  better 
than  to  live  and  suffer,  as  she  will  when  she  knows  all — if 
she  lives  to  hear  it." 

The  rector  raised  his  daughter  from  the  floor,  laid  her 
upon  the  sofa,  and  sent  for  the  family  physician.  The  house- 
keeper and  the  chambermaid  resorted  to  such  methods  as  they 
knew  of  to  revive  her.  Then  they  carried  the  young  lady 
to  her  room  and  put  her  to  bed,  where  she  lay,  her  breast 
heaving  convulsively,  her  face  as  white  as  marble,  while  cold 
perspiration  bedewed  her  forehead.  The  doctor  shook  his 
head  doubtfully,  while  the  poor  rector  wrung  his  hands  in 
despair.  It  was  some  hours  before  the  doctor  could  come 
to  a  conclusion,  but  finally  admitted  that  the  case,  although 
serious,  was  not  hopeless. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  209 

We  will  not  pain  the  reader  by  a  detail  of  the  long  ill- 
ness which  followed  Elsie's  fainting-fit.  Her  father  hung 
over  her  night  and  day,  and  the  physician  was  at  her  bed- 
side constantly.  The  best  nurse  that  could  be  found  was 
sent  for,  and  an  eminent  physician  was  sent  down  from  Lon- 
don, who,  after  spending  three  days  at  the  rector's  and 
pocketing  a  hundred  guineas,  went  away,  leaving  the  case 
in  the  hands  of  the  local  practitioner,  which  he  might  as  well 
have  done  in  the  first  instance. 

For  two  weeks  Elsie  tossed  about  in  an  hysterical  state, 
but  gradually  calmed  down,  and  on  the  fourteenth  day 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  the  strange  nurse  intently. 
''  Is  this  the  other  world  ? "  she  asked,  in  a  faint  tone.  "  I 
have  had  so  much  trouble  in  getting  here  !  The  world  I 
left  was  so  cruel  I  could  not  stay  there.  Men  had  no  pity 
there;  they  sacrificed  the  most  noble  without  mercy.  What 
can  they  expect  when  they  are  sent  away  from  earth  }  How 
can  they  answer  for  what  they  have  done  to  the  innocent  ? 
But  then  they  crucified  Christ,  God's  own  son,  and,  of 
course,  after  that  it  mattered  not  to  them  whom  they^  con- 
demned. Is  there  no  mercy  left  on  earth  .>  Are  the  best 
and  noblest  to  be  destroyed  ?  God  help  us  all  !  Tell  me  !  " 

"  Yes,  miss,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  by  and  by,"  said 
the  nurse,  "but  I  must  tell  your  father  that  you  have  come 
to.  You  have  not  spoken  to  him  for  two  weeks,  and  his 
heart  is  broken  about  you."  The  nurse  rose  and  left  the 
room  to  inform  the  rector  that  his  daughter  was  again  con- 
scious. 

The  rector  hastened  to  Elsie's  room,  and  found  her  as 
the  nurse  had  said,  able  to  speak,  but  still  under  the  halluci- 
nation that  she  was  in  a  better  world.  She  held  out  her 
arms  to  her  father  who  clasped  her  to  his  breast,  his  eyes 
full  of  tears.  "  Thank  God,  "  he  cried,  "  for  all  his  mer- 
cies, for  this  proof  of  thy  goodness  to  thy  sorrowful  son  in 
restoring  me  my  darling  child.  Ah,  Elsie,  you  little  know 
how  my  heart  has  been  shattered  at  the  idea  of  losing  you  !  " 
14 


2IO  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

"  Are  we  not  in  another  world,  papa  ?  "  said  Elsie.  "  You 
talk  so  strangely.  Have  I  been  dreaming  or  is  what  I  have 
gone  through  a  dreadful  reality  1  Have  I  lost  my  dear  Ar- 
thur in  this  life  ?  and  will  I  see  him  only  in  the  life  to  come  ? 
How  you  have  suffered,  poor  papa  !  You  show  it  in  your 
face,  you  have  aged  so — why,  see  the  gray  hairs  that  have 
come  since  I  left  you  !  Ah,  you  must  go  back  with  me  to 
that  sweet  heaven  where  sorrow  will  cease  to  trouble  and 
where  those  who  have  loved  on  earth  will  be  joined  together 
never  to  part  again." 

"  Would  that  we  could  go  there,  darling,"  sighed  the 
father,  '*  to  live  forever  away  from  this  cruel  world,  for  there 
there  is  mercy  for  all.  Here  men  are  digging  pitfalls  for 
the  innocent  and  unwary,  and  dragging  down  the  noblest  in 
the  land." 

"Ah,  papa,"  she  said,  "  are  men  so  cruel  and  less  mer- 
ciful than  God  who  forgives  their  sins  daily,  while  they  are 
constantly  making  laws  of  the  most  rigorous  kind  to  punish 
the  innocent  ?  "  and  the  tears  bedewed  her  pallid  cheeks.  "  I 
thought  I  was  in  heaven,"  she  said,  "  and  it  is  sad  to  think 
I  am  still  on  earth." 

'^  But  you  are  with  me,  Elsie,  and  life  would  be  dreadful 
without  you  ;  try  and  live  for  my  sake." 

She  took  his  fevered  face  between  her  hands  and  kissed 
him  on  both  cheeks.  "I  will,"  she  said,  "  if  I  can,  but  I 
have  gone  through  great  agony — such  agony  as  I  think  our 
Saviour  went  through  on  the  cross  ;  and  he  did  not  murmur. 
I  will  try  not  to,  papa  dear." 

Just  then  the  doctor  came  in  much  pleased  to  see  his 
patient  doing  so  well.  *'  This  will  not  do,  shedding  tears,"  he 
said.  **  We  must  have  sounds  of  joy  for  your  return  to  life, 
for  I  scarcely  had  a  hope  of  saving  you.  But  we  must  put  a 
stop  to  this  excitement.  You  must  take  this  opiate,  and 
your  father  must  not  see  you  again  to-day."  So  saying,  he 
gave  her  the  sedative  and  led  her  father  from  the  room. 

In  six  days  Elsie  was  out  of  danger,  though  still  confined 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  211 

to  her  bed.  She  gradually  improved  till  able  to  sit  up,  a 
mere  shadow  of  her  former  self,  but  she  never  referred  to 
Arthur.  A  great  struggle  was  going  on  in  her  mind,  and  she 
watched  her  unhappy  father  with  the  keenest  interest.  It 
was  he,  she  thought,  who  now  needed  care,  for  she  was 
troubled  when  she  saw  how  he  had  failed.  She  forgot  her 
own  sorrows  in  those  of  her  parent,  who  had  been  both 
father  and  mother  to  her,  and  had  watched  over  her  with  a 
care  unsurpassed,  but  there  was  an  expression  of  unusual 
grief  on  her  face — the  expression  of  a  saint,  who  had  given 
up  all  in  this  life  and  looked  for  happiness  in  the  world  to 
come. 

Six  weeks  after  Elsie  recovered  consciousness  she  was 
able  to  be  moved  down-stairs.  A  carpet  was  spread  for  her 
near  the  lake,  and  she  was  seated  in  an  easy-chair.  Her 
doves  recognized  her  immediately,  and  swooped  down  at 
her  feet,  where  they  cooed  and  struggled  for  precedence  as 
they  had  never  done  before,  while  her  pet  perched  upon  her 
shoulder  and  testified  his  joy  by  kissing  her  and  fluttering 
his  beautiful  wings.  "Ah,  my  poor  pets,"  she  said,  ''  while 
I  have  mourned  you  have  been  ignored.  I  should  have 
remembered  that  I  had  duties  to  perform,  and  that  God 
never  intended  that  any  of  his  creatures  should  be  neglected. 
And  these  poor  doves,  who  have  only  me  to  look  out  for 
them,  what  must  they  have  thought  of  me  ?  " 

Her  father  had  stolen  silently  behind  her  chair  while  she 
was  soliloquizing,  and  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  "  I 
have  neglected  nothing,  my  darling,"  he  said  ;  "  your  pets 
have  been  looked  after,  and  there  is  not  one  of  your  poor 
who  has  not  been  here  day  after  day  to  inquire  after  you. 
But  you  see  that  your  pets  ignore  me  now  and  are  true  to 
their  first  love." 

"  That  is  right  in  them,  papa,"  she  said.  *'  Love  is  God's 
best  gift,  and  there  is  but  one  sweet  love  in  a  life-time,  and 
we  should  esteem  it  more  than  we  would  diamonds.  It  puri- 
fies our  nature  and  lifts  us  up  nearer  to  heaven.    Papa,  I  have 


212  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

work  to  do,  and  while  I  cherish  in  my  bosom  the  memories 
of  the  past,  I  will  perform  my  duties  and  hope  to  have  the 
fruition  of  my  love  in  the  realms  above.  My  heart  is  sore, 
but  I  will  not  complain.  I  believe  in  the  innocence  of  him 
who  is  punished  by  the  cruelty  of  man,  and  I  believe  in  our 
meeting  again  in  a  better  world.  Be  patient  with  me,  dear 
papa,  for  a  time,  if  sometimes  I  show  weakness.  But  with 
returning  strength  will  come  consolation  and  pleasure  in 
performing  my  duty.  And  now,  nurse,  please  take  me  into 
the  house  ;   I  have  overtasked  my  strength." 

The  doves  circled  around  Elsie's  head  as  she  moved 
away,  and  then  flew  to  their  dove-cote.  She  threw  herself 
upon  her  bed,  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  prayed  fer- 
vently, beseeching  her  Heavenly  Father  to  enable  her  to  bear 
her  trials. 

Mrs.  Merton  had  lain  many  weeks  unconscious,  but  at 
length  the  fever  left  her,  and  she  lay,  pale  as  marble,  like  the 
figure  of  a  departed  saint.  The  third  day  after  she  opened 
her  eyes  the  doctor  was  by  her  side  with  his  hand  on  her 
heart  and  looking  closely  into  her  eyes,  in  which  there  was 
not  the  least  expression.  Turning  to  Mrs,  Pentland,  he 
said  :  "  She  will  live,  but  Providence  has  been  kind  to  her 
— reason  has  fled,  and  she  will  never  know  the  sorrow  that 
has  fallen  upon  her.  Take  good  care  of  her.  I  will  call  to- 
morrow. The  best  thing  is  to  get  her  back  to  Woodlawn, 
where  familiar  scenes  may  benefit  her,  though  I  do  not  think 
she  will  ever  be  cured,  except  by  some  shock  as  great  as 
that  which  unseated  her  reason," 

In  the  following  two  weeks  Mr.  and  Mrs,  Pentland  re- 
moved Julia  to  her  home.  Mr.  Merton  was  not  there  to 
receive  her,  having,  in  fact  never  left  the  mills  since  this 
trouble  had  fallen  on  his  family.  He  shut  himself  up,  and 
murmured,  not  over  the  fate  of  his  son,  but  over  the  failure 
of  his  plans,  which  he  thought  would  have  placed  him  high 
in  the  social  scale,  and  he  sorely  begrudged  the  money  he 
had  paid  in  legal  expenses,  denouncing  the  counselors  as 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  213 

ignoramuses,  who  could  not   manage  a  case  which  an  ordi- 
nary lawyer  would  have  handled  with  ease. 

Ronald  Pentland  did  not  join  his  parents  on  their  return 
home,  but  remained  in  London,  suffering  remorse  for  the 
part  he  had  taken  in  this  dreadful  matter.  He  determined 
to  employ  detectives  to  find  Bill  Briggs,  offering  them  large 
rewards,  for  he  felt  sure  that  he  must  be  hiding  somewhere 
in  the  slumps  of  the  city.  To  drown  his  remorse,  he  plunged 
into  the  wildest  dissipation,  and  after  a  month  of  this  kind 
of  life  and  great  inattention  to  duty,  his  employers  notified 
him  that  he  was  not  suited  for  a  banker's  life,  and  advised 
him  to  seek  some  other  vocation.  With  all  Ronald's  efforts, 
he  could  hear  nothing  of  the  whereabouts  of  Bill  Briggs, 
and,  disgusted  with  the  world,  he  returned  home,  where  he 
told  his  father  he  had  no  taste  for  banking,  since  an  inno- 
cent man  like  Arthur  could  so  easily  have  a  robbery  fixed 
upon  him  by  twelve  ignorant  jurors,  a  thing  which  might  as 
easily  happen  to  him. 

"  It  is  almost  sacrilege  to  talk  in  that  way,  my  son,"  said 
the  squire  ;  "  the  system  of  trial  by  jury  is  the  bulwark  of 
English  liberty.  Arthur  has  been  tempted  and  has  fallen 
as  our  father  Adam  did — all  owing  to  there  being  a  woman 
in  the  case.  He  has  brought  great  grief  upon  us  all,  but  he 
still  has  a  chance  to  redeem  himself,  for  he  is  young  and 
full  of  talent." 

"  Ah,  father,"  he  said  "  God  save  me  from  ever  being  tried 
by  an  English  jury  for  I  should  be  certain  of  conviction,"  and 
he  went  out,  got  his  horse  and  rode  madly  over  the  moors. 

The  squire  said  to  himself  :  ''  I  was  wrong  to  let  the 
young  men  go  to  London  surrounded  with  temptations  of 
all  kinds,  but  who  would  have  supposed  that  Arthur  Merton 
would  have  robbed  a  bank  ?  Had  it  been  his  father  I  would 
not  have  been  surprised.  It  was  in  the  boy's  blood;  better 
to  be  brought  to  justice  while  he  was  young — it  may  cure 
him.  How  I  pity  his  poor  mother  !  To  think  that  such  a 
sweet  creature  should  be  the  mother  of  a  felon  !     Perhaps  it 


214 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


is  as  well  for  Ronald  that  their  acquaintance  was  so  suddenly- 
ended.  Arthur  might  have  led  him  astray,  though  he  is  a  lad 
of  much  principle  and  it  would  be  a  difficult  thing  to  do." 
Thus  soliloquizing,  the  squire  put  on  his  hat,  took  a  basket 
of  salt,  and  went  out  to  feed  the  deer. 

Two  days  after  Julia's  return  to  Woodlawn  Elsie  came 
down-stairs,  dressed  in  mourning,  and  went  to  her  fathers' 
study,  where  the  rector  was  sitting  wrapped  in  meditation. 
He  looked  at  his  daughter  as  if  surprised,  but  said  nothing, 
comprehending  what  it  meant,  and  not  objecting. 

''Dear  papa,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  to  see  Mrs.  Mer- 
lon, and  from  this  time  she  will  be  the  object  of  my  care 
while  she  lives,  for,  poor  dear,  she  could  not  survive  the 
shock  if  her  reason  returned  and  she  comprehended  the 
dreadful  misfortune  that  has  fallen  upon  her.  You  see 
papa,  that  God  has  work  for  us  all  to  do  in  helping  the 
afflicted,  instead  of  sitting  with  our  hands  folded  and  repin- 
ing over  our  own  misfortunes.  Mine  seem  so  dreadful  that 
at  times  I  can  scarcely  bear  up  under  them,  but  when  I 
think  how  insignificant  they  are  compared  with  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton's  grief,  I  thank  God  for  his  mercy  to  me.  You  must 
come  with  me,  papa,  and  see  her  yourself." 

As  Elsie  was  yet  weak,  the  father  and  daughter  walked 
slowly  toward  Woodlawn.  As  they  passed  through  the 
woods  where  the  lovers  had  so  frequently  wandered,  she 
almost  broke  down  when  she  thought  that  she  would,  per- 
haps, never  see  the  loved  face  again  ;  that  his  life  would  be 
apart  from  her  own,  and  that,  even  if  restored  to  liberty, 
Arthur  could  never  come  to  her.  There  was  a  ban  upon 
his  name  that  would  keep  them  apart  forever,  not  that  she 
had  for  a  moment  believed  him  guilty,  but  she  knew  that  un- 
less his  innocence  was  made  manifest  to  the  world  he  would 
never  return  to  his  friends.  She  had  not  forgotten  what  her 
father  had  said  when  he  told  her  of  her  lover's  fate  ;  every 
word  of  his  conversation  was  engraved  on  her  brain  never 
to  be  forgotten,  and  it  came  to  her  memory  when  her  con- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  215 

sciousness  returned  to  her,  as  the  lights  and  shadows  come 
out  on  the  photographic  negative  when  subjected  to  the 
sunlight.  She  had  never  referred  to  the  matter  in  conver- 
sation with  her  father  until  this  day,  and  he,  knowing  the 
high-souled  character  of  his  child,  and  how  pure  and  self- 
sacrificing  she  was,  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  open  the 
subject  to  her.  He  knew  she  would  do  her  duty  to  the  end, 
never  departing  from  the  high  standard  she  had  aimed  at  in 
life  by  weak  exhibitions  of  her  own  grief  while  there  were 
so  many  in  the  world  needing  her  assistance. 

Mrs.  Pentland  met  Elsie  and  her  father  at  the  door,  and 
clasped  the  dear  girl  in  her  arms,  shedding  copious  tears. 
She  found  Elsie  much  changed,  and  her  motherly  heart 
bled  at  seeing  the  marks  sorrow  had  made  on  one  so  young. 
She  could  not  conceive  why  Elsie  had  grieved  so  over  one 
whom  she  held  only  as  a  brother,  for  she  did  not  yet  know 
that  Arthur  and  Elsie  were  lovers. 

''Come  in,"  she  said,  "and  see  her;  but  prepare  your- 
self for  a  shock.  It  is  a  blessing  that  the  poor  thing  has 
lost  her  reason,  for  she  suffers  no  pain." 

As  they  entered  the  room  where  Julia  was  lying  they 
were  surprised  to  see  so  little  outward  change  in  her.  She 
was  pale,  but  as  beautiful  as  ever.  Her  eyes  did  not  change 
their  direction  or  expression  as  the  party  entered  the  room, 
and  Elsie  went  up  to  her  bedside  and  took  the  invalid's  hand 
in  her  own. 

"  She  does  not  know  any  one,"  said  Mrs.  Pentland,  "not 
even  me  who  have  nursed  her  all  along.  She  has  not  changed 
the  least  since  she  regained  consciousness." 

"  Mrs.  Merton,"  said  Elsie,  "  don't  you  know  me .?  "  and 
she  stooped  over  her. 

The  invalid  started,  and  painfully  and  slowly  moved  her 
eyes,  which  seemed  fixed  in  their  sockets.  She  tried  to  raise 
herself  in  bed,  but  without  success.  At  length  a  faint  voice, 
like  that  of  a  child,  said  :  "Speak  again."  These  were  the 
first  distinct  words  she  had  spoken. 


2i6  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

"It  is  Elsie,  dear  Mrs.  Merton,  your  own  Elsie." 

"  Ah,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  you  had  left  mCo 
Don't  leave  me  again,  I  am  afraid  of  myself.  Has  Arthur 
come  back,  and  will  you  be  married  soon  ?" 

"  He  will  come  as  soon  as  he  can,"  said  Elsie,  who  could 
hardly  speak  for  emotion.     *'  Do  you  know  me .''  " 

"Of  course  I  do,"  replied  the  invalid,  "and  am  wishing 
for  you  all  the  time." 

"  Then,  Mrs.  Pentland,"  said  Elsie,  "  my  course  is  plain  ; 
I  will  stay  here.  Mrs.  Merton  seems  to  have  some  recogni- 
tion of  me,  and  I  may  do  her  good.  You  will,  of  course, 
come  every  day  to  help  me  with  your  counsel,  and  who 
knows  what  we  may  do  between  us  1  Don't  you  think  this 
is  best,  dear  papa  ?  " 

"Yes,  darling,  just  as  you  and  Mrs.  Pentland  think  best." 

Mrs.  Pentland  agreed  at  once  to  the  proposition,  for  Elsie 
had  been  the  first  one  who  had  drawn  any  sign  of  recogni- 
tion from  Julia,  and  it  was  decided  that  she  should  move 
over  to  Woodlawn  at  once,  and  commence  her  watch.  This 
was  a  painful  period  of  Elsie's  life,  and  the  only  thing  that 
sustained  her  was  the  thought  of  the  duties  she  had  to  per- 
form at  the  invalid's  side.  Her  only  reward  was  that  she 
would  be  doing  a  faithful  part  to  the  mother  of  one  she  still 
cherished  in  her  heart  though  he  was  dead  to  her.  She 
knew  he  was  innocent  of  crime,  for  he  could  no  more  do  a 
wrong  act  than  water  could  mix  with  oil.  It  was  with  a 
feeling  of  gladness  that  she  took  charge  of  Mrs.  Merton,  and 
she  knelt  and  prayed  that  God  would  help  her  in  the  arduous 
task  she  had  undertaken. 

Julia  was  mentally  nothing  more  now  than  a  little  child 
whose  mind  was  wandering  in  darkness,  whether  toward  the 
light  of  day  or  to  greater  obscurity,  no  one  could  tell.  She 
might  thus  continue  for  years  and  yet  be  traveling  toward 
the  light,  and  her  present  condition  might  be  the  act  of  a 
kind  Providence  which  had  blessed  her  with  oblivion  lest 
she  fall  under  too  great  a  w^eight  of  sorrow.     Time  was  a 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  21/ 

blank  to  her  now,  but  when  the  hours  of  the  day  were  num- 
bered, this  poor  stricken  soul  slumbered  in  holy  and  calm 
delight,  free  from  the  pains  of  mortality.  The  friends  that 
she  once  loved  visited  her  in  dreams.  He,  the  one  she  once 
loved  with  girlhood's  affection,  wandered  hand  in  hand  with 
her  along  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  and  the  child  that  had  filled 
the  vacuum  in  her  breast  gamboled  about  her  knees.  The 
Good  Shepherd  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  allowed  her  weary 
soul  rest  in  sleep  while  the  stars  of  night  shone  above  her 
couch,  and  angels  whispered  soothingly  to  her. 

Elsie's  first  step  was  to  let  her  patient,  who  had  been 
kept  in  bed  for  a  long  time,  look  out  upon  the  beauties  of 
nature  and  see  if  her  eyes  would  recognize  familiar  objects. 
So,  with  the  aid  of  a  maid,  she  propped  her  up  in  an  easy- 
chair  by  the  window.  Julia  did  not  manifest  much  intelH- 
gence,  but  seemed  pleased  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  ship 
that  was  sailing  into  port,  and  there  sat  quietly  until  she  fell 

asleep.  " 

Thus  the  days  passed,  Elsie  leading  Julia  toward  the 
light  of  day,  as  a  mother  toils  for  an  infant  until  it  can 
stand  alone.  Months  passed  away,  and  yet  the  sweet  girl 
never  faltered  in  her  work  of  love,  and  then  she  w^as  re- 
warded by  some  slight  scintillation  of  reason  which  often 
remained  with  the  patient.  She  was  also  rewarded  by  the 
fact  that  her  patient  did  not  suffer  in  mind,  but  was  living 
in  a  state  of  peace  and  tranquillity  felt  by  those  alone  whom 
God  shields  in  ways  of  his  own  from  the  bitter  stings  of 
adversity. 

Elsie  took  pleasure  in  caring  for  this  sweet  woman  which 
words  can  not  express.  She  forgot  her  own  sorrows  when 
she  looked  at  the  wreck  which  grief  had  made  of  the  one 
she  so  closely  attended,  and  she  thanked  God  for  turning 
her  thoughts  to  nobler  work  than  sighing  over  her  own  mis- 
fortunes.    She  felt  with  the  poet : 

Oh  !  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this,  and  thou  shalt  know  ere  long- 
Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is  to  suffer  and  be  strong. 


2lS  ARTHUR  MERTON. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


In  a  cell  in  Millbank  prison  sat  Arthur  Merton  after  two 
years'  confinement.  His  closely  cropped  hair  had  grown 
white,  not  from  sudden  fear  or  grief,  but  from  anguish  of 
mind,  and  from  being  banned  and  barred  from  all  that  made 
life  valuable.  His  cell  was  damp  and  chilly,  and  as  he  sat 
with  his  blanket  wrapped  around  his  shoulders,  he  shivered 
with  the  cold.  Through  a  narrow  aperture  in  the  wall  stole 
a  feeble  ray  of  light  which  flickered  like  the  flame  of  a 
candle  and  hardly  lighted  the  dismal  place  where  rats  and 
mice  and  spiders  loved  to  congregate.  The  damp  crept 
along  the  floor  and  clung  to  the  walls.  Here,  in  solitude, 
dwelt  the  prisoner,  for  after  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  not  a 
human  voice  came  to  cheer  his  loneliness.  The  mice  gam- 
boling about  his  cell  in  search  of  stray  crumbs  were  all  he 
had  to  comfort  him.  They  liked  the  prison  fare  far  better 
than  he,  and  only  vanished  when  the  grating  of  the  key  in 
the  lock  of  his  prison  door  announced  the  keeper.  The  harsh 
sounds  of  the  turnkey's  voice  were  a  comfort  to  the  pris- 
oner's soul,  for  they  brought  him  tidings  from  the  outside 
world. 

For  two  long  years  he  had  seen  none  of  his  friends  ;  he 
had  persistently  declined  to  do  so  for  the  idea  of  meeting 
any  one  who  had  known  him  in  happier  days  gave  him  in- 
explicable pain,  and  he  would  rather  stay  there  and  listen 
to  the  clanking  of  his  chains  than  have  his  wounds  reopened 
by  seeing  any  one  of  his  former  friends.  It  was  dreadful  to 
him,  when  the  turnkey  summoned  him  forth  to  work  with 
the  other  convicts,  to  be  obliged  to  listen  to  the  ribald  jests 
of  men  so  low  in  the  scale  of  crime.  He  could  not  bear 
to  have  their  fingers  pointed  at  him  as  the  "  gentleman 
robber  "  who  had  fouled  his  nest  without  a  particle  of  use. 

"You  were  rich,"  said  one,  "why  not  have  left  the  fin- 
gering of  other  people's  money  to  us  who  had  none  of  our 


ARTHUR  MERTOX.  219 

own,  who,  working  on  these  walls  and  sleeping  in  these  cells, 
find  food  and  shelter  in  the  winter  months." 

"Fool!  "  said  another.  "Why,  when  you  were  stealing, 
did  you  not  steal  a  pile  and  put  it  under  ground  ?  Why  risk 
it  in  your  pocket  ?     You  are  a  disgrace  to  the  profession." 

The  convicts  all  knew  his  history,  and  his  mark,  No. 
10,  when  seen  afar  off,  brought  jests  and  ribaldry.  Of  all 
that  company,  only  one  greeted  him  with  kindness — a  poor, 
attenuated  man  who  might  be  fifty  or  might  be  eighty,  im- 
prisonment and  time  had  wrought  such  changes  in  him  that 
neither  wife  nor  child  would  recognize  him  now.  For  more 
than  twenty  years  he  had  been  in  prison  and  had,  apar- 
ently,  become  reconciled  to  his  fate.  Arthur's  superiority  in 
appearance  made  him  a  target  for  ribaldry,  for  prison  life  is 
somewhat  akin  to  what  we  see  in  the  best  circles. 

Arthur  often  begged  to  be  left  alone  in  his  dark  cell 
rather  than  to  work  with  gangs.  He  would  rather  lose  the 
air  and  light  than  listen  to  the  blasphemy  that  shocked  his 
ears.  His  life  was  wrecked — what  mattered  it  whether  he 
died  a  year  sooner  or  not  ?  Dead  as  were  the  days  he  spent 
by  himself,  they  were  actually  days  of  rest  and  comparative 
enjoyment,  for  he  would  rather  be  in  his  cell,  where  he  could 
hold  communion  with  his  mother's  soul,  than  to  be  in  the 
light  of  brightest  day  in  company  of  criminals. 

This  day  Arthur  was  sitting  by  his  table,  on  which  stood 
his  evening  meal,  which  remained  untouched.  A  mouse  was 
running  about  picking  up  the  crumbs,  and  now  and  then 
ran  over  the  prisoner's  hand.  "  Ah,"  said  Arthur,  "  these  are 
your  realms,  enjoy  them  while  you  may  for  you  are  safe  here, 
no  cats  will  trouble  you.  This  is  liberty  for  you  ;  to  me  it 
is  death.  Oh,  death,  why  do  you  not  come  and  relieve  me 
of  my  sorrows  ?  " 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  rattling  of  keys  and  the 
mouse  scampered  off  on  hearing  the  approach  of  an  enemy, 
as  Arthur  looked  up  in  surprise  at  this  unusual  visit.  The 
turnkey  entered.     "  Good  news.  No.  10,"  he  said.    "  I  bring 


220  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

you  liberty,  and  ye'U  no  longer  be  buried  in  this  dark  hole. 
An'  thank  yer  good  Queen  for  bein'  so  merciful  to  ye  and 
providin'  ye  with  a  'ome  in  other  lands,  where  ye'll  almost 
be  yer  own  master." 

This  man  had  been  kindly  disposed  toward  Arthur,  for 
he  said  to  him  :  "Lacking  the  bee  in  yer  bonnet  about  yer 
bein'  innocent,  yer  the  best  feller  in  the  lot.  But  ye  know  a 
jury  found  ye  guilty,  an'  ye  can't  be  innocent.  Come,  pack 
yer  traps,  an'  get  ready  to  go  on  the  Kangaroo  ;  she  sails  the 
moment  all  are  aboard,  an'  Captain  Albatross  is  anxious  to 
be  gettin'  off." 

''  Liberty  !  "  exclaimed  Arthur,  looking  at  the  turnkey  in 
amazement,  as  if  he  doubted  his  senses.  "  What  solace  will 
freedom  be  to  me  with  a  soiled  name,  known  wherever  I  go 
as  '  late  of  Millbank  prison  '  ?  The  cell  and  shackle  have 
been  my  companions  for  two  years.  I  bade  the  world  '  good- 
night '  when  I  entered  here,  knowing  I'd  see  no  more  the 
light  of  other  days.  Men  have  been  found  guilty  of  heinous 
crimes,  and,  though  life  has  been  made  hateful  to  them,  they 
may  have  well  deserved  their  fate.  But  that  I  doubt,  for 
man  is  cruel,  and  I  am  a  proof  of  how  the  innocent  can  be 
betrayed.  Now,  look  at  me,  with  hair  grown  prematurely 
white,  a  form  that  would  have  been  bent  with  toil  except 
for  muscles  of  steel  and  a  will  to  bear  up  under  oppression. 
See  this  chain  that  is  nightly  locked  to  the  floor  to  prevent 
my  escape  through  these  solid  walls.  You  have  been  kind, 
and  have  not  visited  me  with  the  rigors  of  a  jail,  but  I'd 
rather  bear  them  all  and  live  where  daylight  is  a  stranger 
than  go  where  I  can  not  prove  my  innocence,  although  my 
limbs,  in  course  of  time,  are  racked  with  pain  from  the  chill 
condensation  on  these  moldy  walls,  I  am  innocent,  I  say, 
and  yet  I  would  rather  pine  in  a  cell,  and  eat  the  coarse 
food,  my  soul  protesting  against  a  trial  so  rough  that  hu- 
manity would  shudder  could  I  tell  what  I  have  under- 
gone. Oh  !  you  who  in  liberty  often  shed  tears  at  human 
ills  of  small  moment,  you  would   shed  them  over  my  tale  ! 


ARTHUR  ME R TON.  221 

Yet  I  would  bear  all  the  ills  I  have  gone  through  rather 
than  go  from  here  and  miss  the  chance  of  proving  my  inno- 
cence. I  am  innocent,  yet  see,  my  hair  has  become  white. 
It  was  not  the  fears  from  dungeon  life  or  terrors  of  the 
night  that  has  made  me  thus,  but  the  soul's  unrest.  I  have 
suffered  for  another  who  is  now  laughing  at  penalties  he 
should  have  borne  in  place  of  myself.  But  with  all  this, 
I  would  rather  remain." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  the  turnkey,  "  of  course,  yer  in- 
nocent. Don't  the  Queen  proclaim  it  ?  Come  out  and  breathe 
the  pure  air  which  will  put  new  life  into  you.  Men  never 
die  with  joy.  The  sails  are  fluttering,  and  the  sailors,  with 
their  '  Yo,  heave  ho,'  are  hoisting  the  anchor  to  the  bows. 
No  time  to  lose,  hurry  up,  and  leave  the  bee  in  yer  bonnet 
behind  ye.  The  convict  ship  don't  offer  such  a  chance  as 
this  often.  Ye're  to  go  to  Melbourne,  a  lovely  place,  and 
yer  life,  compared  to  now,  will  be  a  happy  one." 

Bitter  tears  sprung  to  Arthur's  eyes  and  coursed  down 
his  cheeks.  "Oh,  no!  not  there,"  he  cried.  "Days  here 
for  me  out  there  would  pass  for  years.  I  would  rather 
die  than  leave  this  cell  for  that  far  away  place.  I  have 
learned  to  love  the  rain  that  drips  on  stormy  nights  through 
my  prison  bars.  Bitter  enough  the  cold,  but  I  am  nearer 
here  to  those  I  love,  and  they  can  claim  my  remains  when 
my  soul  is  spent.  I  love  my  den  where  oft  I've  called  on 
death,  where,  ere  my  time,  some  sorrowful  wretches  have 
cut  their  names  on  the  stone  walls.  I  had  rather  live  on 
here  and  pass  ten  years  in  cutting  this  solid  stone  than  have 
the  softest  couch  beneath  Australian  skies !  Here  I  can 
sometimes  be  alone.  In  yonder  ship  I  would  herd  with 
criminals,  outcasts  from  all  the  world.  Oh  !  save  me  from 
a  convict  ship  ;  one  can  not  keep  aloof  in  that  vile  den  of 
thieves.  O  God,  pray  leave  me  here  in  this  damp  vault  ! 
I  would  rather  live  in  a  cave  beneath  the  sea  than  dwell 
with  a  vile  crew  on  board  the  prison  ship." 

"All  right,"  said  the  turnkey,  "ye're  innocent  we  know, 


222  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

but  still  the  governor  of  the  jail  says  that  ye'll  embark.  His 
word  is  law,  and  ye'd  better  come  with  me.  The  boats  are 
at  the  bank,  and  boats  don't  wait.  Move  on  !  Don't  stop  ! 
Stay  yer  little  prayer.  Pray  when  yer  on  board  ship.  I've 
no  time  to  spare  in  idle  talk,  but  I  tell  ye  now  ye'll  live  to 
bless  the  Queen  for  all  her  mercies.  Come  on,  or  I'll  get 
cross.  Pack  yer  kit,  ye'll  want  it  all  on  board.  Come,  I 
can't  wait."  Arthur's  prayers  were  in  vain,  he  had  to  go, 
and,  gathering  his  few  belongings,  with  swelling  heart,  he 
followed  the  turnkey  out  into  the  air,  where  a  crowd  of  con- 
victs were  waiting  to  embark. 

The  Kangaroo  was  a  large  ship  fitted  for  the  accomoda- 
tion of  convicts.  She  had  a  crew  of  fifty  men,  to  whom 
forty  marines  were  added  to  guard  the  three  hundred  and 
sixty  prisoners.  All  along  the  main  deck  were  iron  bars,  ex- 
tending from  the  bow  on  the  starboard  side  to  abaft  the 
mainmast,  and  divided  into  three  compartments,  strongly 
barred.  Here  the  prisoners  were  to  be  kept.  All  needful 
arrangements  were  made  for  their  health  and  comfort. 

Behold  that  ship  with  lofty  spars  towed  down  the  Thames 
by  a  steamer  which  is  belching  forth  clouds  of  smoke  as  she 
drags  her  tow  toward  the  sea.  She  casts  off,  and  the  tars  trip 
up  the  rigging,  loose  the  ponderous  sails,  and,  as  they  are 
sheeted  home  and  catch  the  breeze,  the  ship  glides  quickly 
through  the  waves.  The  winds  blow  freshly  and  fair.  Three 
hundred  and  sixty  convicts  are  now  upon  the  deep,  penned 
up  behind  those  iron  bars,  their  curses  echoing  between 
the  decks,  singing  ribald  songs,  and  shouting  with  joy  at  the 
prospect  of  freedom  from  work  and  from  prison  discipline. 
It  was  a  dense  crowd  that  had  to  be  closely  guarded.  A 
sentry  on  post  carried  the  keys  and  watched  the  entrance 
doors  to  see  that  no  one  attempted  to  escape,  for  what  could 
not  such  a  reckless  set  of  men  do,  if  once  they  should  get  loose  ? 

The  ship  passed  the  tropics,  caught  the  trade-winds,  and 
reached  the  latitude  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  when  she 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


223 


changed  her  course  to  cross  the  Indian  Ocean,  running  down 
as  far  south  as  the  fifty-fourth  parallel,  when  she  hauled  up 
for  Australia,  still  carr^'ing  a  fair  wind.  Everything  had 
gone  well  so  far,  and  the  captain  of  the  Kangaroo  congratu- 
lated himself  that  no  one  had  ever  had  less  trouble  than 
he  in  transporting  so  many  desperadoes  such  a  distance. 
Captain  Albatross  was  a  stern  but  just  man,  who  took  good 
care  of  the  prisoners,  but  punished  them  severely  if  any  of 
them  violated  the  rules,  for  it  was  necessary  to  maintain 
strict  discipline  among  a  concourse  such  as  that.  No  pun- 
ishment was  inflicted  except  such  as  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary, but  notwithstanding  the  kindness  shown  the  prisoners, 
whose  lives  were  pleasant  compared  to  what  they  underwent 
at  Millbank  prison,  five  or  six  of  the  leading  convicts  had 
planned  a  mutiny  in  which  the  ship  was  to  be  captured,  the 
officers,  crew,  and  marines  to  be  overpowered  and  thrown 
overboard,  and  one  of  their  number  was  to  be  placed  in 
command.  This  plan  seemed,  at  first  sight,  a  difficult  thing 
to  accomplish,  yet  the  wretches  came  near  carrying  out  their 
design. 

They  had  made  all  their  arrangements  through  the  help 
of  one  of  the  ship's  crew  who  was  in  league  with  them.  They 
had  been  furnished  with  files,  steel  saws,  and  false  keys  to 
make  their  way  out,  and  had,  after  a  month's  time,  selected 
three  leaders  of  divisions  who  knew  where  all  the  guards 
slept  and  where  they  kept  their  arms.  The  colleague  outside 
had  conveyed  to  them,  from  time  to  time,  knives,  chisels, 
iron  belaying-pins,  and  marlin-spikes  that  would  not  be 
missed,  and  had  managed,  at  the  last  moment,  to  abstract 
from  the  arm-chests  some  twenty  cutlasses  and  revolvers. 
It  was  determined,  when  the  opportunity  should  offer,  to 
break  out  of  the  iron  cage  and  overpower  the  guard  by 
force  of  numbers.  It  was  decided  to  run  the  ship  on  shore 
at  some  convenient  place,  take  from  her  all  they  needed, 
and  then  set  fire  to  her,  escaping  to  the  bush,  where  it  would 
be  a  most  difficult   matter  for  the  authorities  in  Australia 


224  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

ever  to  capture  any  of  them.  Such  things  had  been  done 
before  and  could  be  again.  If  they  did  not  succeed,  they 
would  be  no  worse  off  than  they  were  previously. 

It  was  night  upon  the  Indian  Ocean,  the  ship  was  under  a 
press  of  sail,  first  mounting  upon  the  huge  seas  that  always 
exist  in  those  latitudes,  and  then  descending  to  the  hollow 
of  the  waves,  when  the  canvas  flapped  from  having  lost  the 
wind.  The  Kangaroo  was  rolling  heavily,  but  there  was  not 
much  work  to  do  in  handling  the  braces.  It  was  four  bells 
in  the  middle  watch,  and  the  guards  had  been  changed, 
while  the  crew  lay  half  asleep  about  the  decks,  excepting 
the  sailor  who  was  in  the  secret  regarding  the  rising.  The 
sentry  was  dozing  against  the  mast,  for  what  had  he  to 
fear  ?  The  keys  of  the  iron  doors  were  at  his  belt,  and  none 
could  pass  the  bars  without  his  consent.  The  sentry  at  the 
cabin  door,  where  hung  the  alarm  gong,  was  sitting  on  a 
camp-stool,  with  his  head  leaning  against  the  bulwarks, 
thinking  of  home,  while  the  swash  of  the  water  against  the 
ship's  side,  the  creaking  of  blocks,  and  the  rattling  of  rig- 
ging, drowned  ordinary  sounds.  It  was  exactly  the  night  to 
undertake  such  an  adventure.  Twelve  marines,  detailed  for 
the  watch  on  deck,  were  sitting  with  their  loaded  guns  beside 
them,  while  the  sergeant  and  corporal  stood  looking  over 
the  bows,  watching  the  phosphorescent  bubbles  thrown  from 
side  to  side  as  the  noble  ship  plowed  her  way  through  the 
dark  waters. 

Those  on  guard  in  the  ship  were  not  as  watchful  as  they 
should  have  been.  A  feeling  of  security  had  made  them 
careless,  and  so  the  ship  moved  on  as  if  every  one  was  on 
the  alert  and  the  elements  of  discord  were  at  rest.  The  bell 
had  struck  five,  the  sentry  at  the  mainmast  started,  straight- 
ened himself  up  for  a  moment,  and  then  fell  back  to  a  semi- 
repose,  his  musket  resting  against  a  stanchion.  An  iron 
bar  in  the  cage  that  had  been  gradually  sawed  in  two  was 
removed,  and  one  convict,  who  with  cat-like  eyes  watched 
the  sentry  on  post,  glided  between  the  bars  and,  stooping 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  225 

low,  crept  toward  the  sleeping  man.  A  knife  flashed  in  the 
air  and  the  soldier  fell  without  a  groan.  His  fall  was  not 
heard,  as  the  convict  caught  him  in  his  arms  and  eased  him 
to  the  deck.  The  murderer  lost  not  a  minute.  Snatching 
the  keys  from  the  belt  about  the  dead  sentry's  waist,  he 
opened  the  doors  leading  into  the  different  sections  of  the 
cage,  where  all  the  convicts  were  apparently  asleep,  though 
hundreds  of  eyes  were  watching  the  movements  of  their 
bloody  emissary.  One,  however,  among  them  all,  watched 
him  more  keenly  than  the  rest. 

When  the  doors  were  unlocked  the  murderer  again 
crawled  aft,  his  reeking  knife  in  his  hand.  The  sentry  in 
charge  of  the  gong  was  fast  asleep,  not  dreaming  of  danger. 
As  the  first  figure  glided  aft  upon  his  mission  of  murder, 
another  man  slipped  through  the  door  of  the  cage  and  fol- 
lowed, hiding  now  and  then  behind  a  coil  or  butt  or  bale, 
carrying  along  his  ball  and  chain  securely  fastened  to  his 
waist,  for  he  was  one  of  those  who  had  not  been  freed,  as  he 
seemed  to  the  convicts  one  who  could  not  be  trusted. 

This  was  Arthur  Merton,  who  for  weeks  had  watched 
the  desperate  game  going  on,  keeping  his  own  counsel,  and 
determined  what  he  would  do  when  the  time  came  to  act. 
As  the  murderer  moved  aft.  No.  10  sprung  up  the  main-hatch 
ladder  to  the  deck.  All  was  silent.  One  man  was  at  the 
wheel,  intent  only  upon  steering  his  course.  The  mate  was 
leaning  over  the  stern  watching  the  shining  wake,  not  think- 
ing of  danger.  All  hands  seemed  dreaming,  as  if  everything 
was  in  perfect  security.  No.  10  crept  cautiously  aft,  looking 
for  the  officer  of  the  watch  or  some  one  to  whom  he  could 
give  the  alarm,  and  at  last  saw  the  mate  leaning  over  the 
taffrail  quite  forgetful  of  the  great  trust  imposed  in  him.  In 
his  belt  he  carried  two  revolvers,  and  a  cutlass  was  at  his 
side.  In  a  moment  No.  10  moved  on  to  the  poop,  and 
stood  by  the  mate's  side  ere  he  knew  it.  He  whispered  into 
the  officer's  dull  ear  :  "  Be  alive  !  The  devils  below  have 
murdered  the  sentry  at   the  prison   door,  and  are  well  pre- 

1t 


226  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

pared  with  knives  and  bolts.  Hasten  and  wake  your  men 
and  rouse  up  the  guard  ere  it  is  too  late.  They  mean  to 
rise  and  kill  all  hands  just  as  the  bell  strikes  six." 

The  mate  took  in  the  situation  at  once,  and  flew  to  call 
the  captain,  who,  before  sleeping  always  prepared  for  an 
emergency.  The  latter  was  on  deck  in  a  moment  fully 
armed.  As  he  reached  the  deck  a  shriek  came  from  below. 
The  murderer  had  reached  the  spot  where  the  after-sentry 
was  stationed  ;  high  in  the  air  rose  the  knife,  and  then  it 
pierced  the  sentry's  heart.  He  had  awakened  just  in  time 
to  see  the  weapon  as  it  was  descending,  and  he  gave  one 
shriek,  his  last  on  earth,  which  reverberated  through  the  ship. 

As  soon  as  he  had  warned  the  mate,  No;  lo  seized  a  cut- 
lass from  the  rack  and  jumped  to  the  hatch  which  he  had 
ascended,  knowing  that  it  would  be  the  first  place  where 
the  attack  would  be  made.  He  was  there  none  too  soon,  for 
as  he  gained  the  spot  a  convict's  head  rose  above  the  deck. 
With  one  well-directed  blow,  Arthur  clove  the  man  through 
the  skull,  and  back  he  fell  among  his  fellows  who,  hearing 
the  sentry's  shriek,  rushed  forth  from  the  cage  on  their 
errand  of  murder.  When  the  captain  reached  the  deck  he 
saw  a  man  at  the  main  hatch  wielding  a  cutlass  in  his  hands 
over  the  heads  of  the  convicts  trying  to  rush  up  on  deck. 
Each  time  he  struck,  one  of  them  fell  back  below.  "  That," 
said  the  mate,  "  is  the  man  who  gave  me  notice ;  look  out, 
sir,  not  to  harm  him." 

The  two  officers  were  at  the  hatch  in  an  instant  and, 
with  revolvers  in  hand,  were  firing  into  the  struggling  mob 
below  so  that  for  the  present  that  point  was  secure  from  the 
attacks  of  the  convicts.  The  guard  upon  the  upper  deck 
were  new  at  the  hatches  firing  down  with  good  effect,  but 
the  guard  below  were  in  sore  straits.  One  hundred  and  fifty 
convicts  had  been  detailed  to  seize  these  guards  while  they 
were  in  their  hammocks  and  take  their  guns  from  them,  but 
the  villains  were  a  little  too  late.  Fifteen  of  the  guards  slept 
aft  and  an  equal  number  in  the  forward   part   of  the   ship, 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  22/ 

while  ten  were  on  watch  above  decks.  Their  arms  were 
slung  to  the  beams  above  the  hammocks,  with  bayonets  fixed, 
and  at  the  shriek  of  the  sentry  every  man  was  on  his  feet, 
musket  in  hand.  They  instantly  formed  across  the  deck. 
On  the  starboard  side  aft  stood  a  Gatling  gun,  firing  three 
hundred  balls  a  minute,  which  commanded  the  whole  cage, 
and  now  the  marines  showed  their  discipline,  as  every  man 
was  as  cool  as  if  on  parade.  The  commanding  marine  offi- 
cer took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  He  saw  the  mass  of 
convicts  struggling  to  get  up  the  main  hatch,  heard  the  shots 
overhead,  and  saw  the  assailants  tumbling  down  the  ladders. 
He  directed  the  Gatling  gun  to  open  on  this  point,  which  it 
did  with  murderous  effect,  the  convicts  falling  by  dozens, 
while  the  marines  upon  their  flank  opened  a  brisk  fire  from 
their  rifles,  which  paralyzed  them  and  drove  them  back  to 
their  cage. 

In  the  mean  time  the  marines  forward  were  having  a 
harder  time,  being  nearly  overpowered  and  losing  several 
of  their  guns,  which  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  convicts ;  but 
fortunately  they  were  unprovided  with  ammunition.  The 
sergeant,  sleeping  forward  with  the  marines,  managed  to 
escape  aft,  and  begged  his  commander  to  open  fire  on  the 
forward  part,  where  the  marines  were  all  lying  flat  upon  the 
deck  and  fighting  upward  with  their  bayonets  and  cutlasses. 
No  sooner  said  than  done.  The  officer  advanced  his  men, 
and  ordered  them  to  fire  on  a  line  with  their  eyes.  They 
did  so,  and  the  convicts  fell  like  blackbirds  ;  those  that  were 
unwounded  fled  to  the  cage,  the  forward  marines  following 
them  in  their  retreat  with  showers  of  balls. 

The  battle  was  soon  over.  The  arrangements  had  been 
so  skillfully  made  that  the  convicts  from  the  first  stood  no 
chance  against  the  modem  arms  opposing  them.  They  were 
like  all  mobs  attacked  by  regular  troops,  and  ran  at  the  first 
fire,  filling  the  ship  with  their  yells  and  groans  as  they  fell 
wounded  or  dying.  The  gates  of  the  cage  were  closed  upon 
them,  and  the  convicts  gave  up  in  despair.     They  had  lost 


228  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

the  game,  and  knew  they  never  would  have  a  chance  again. 
Three  sentries  were  placed  upon  guard,  one  at  every  door 
of  the  cage,  and  wires  were  arranged  so  that  no  door  could 
be  opened  without  ringing  an  electric  bell. 

When  the  ship  was  secure  from  further  attack,  the  cap- 
tain called  for  the  first  officer,  and  said  :  *'  Where  is  the 
man  who  gave  the  notice  of  this  attack  ?  In  ten  minutes 
more  the  convicts  would  have  had  possession  of  the  upper 
deck  and  captured  the  four  arm-chests  of  loaded  guns  and 
pistols,  to  say  nothing  of  the  upper  Catling  gun.  But  for 
him,  who  knows  what  our  fate  would  have  been  ?  We  must 
reward  that  man." 

*'He  is  here,  sir,"  said  the  mate,  and  the  captain,  turn- 
ing around  saw  a  tall,  well-made  youth,  leaning  on  a  cutlass, 
and  bleeding  in  several  places.  **  Ah."  said  the  captain  to 
him,  "  you  did  well,  for  I  saw  you  cut  down  six  of  those 
rascals  yourself.  Had  you  not  notified  the  mate  when  you 
did  they  would  have  gained  the  spar-deck,  and  captured 
the  ship.  I  thank  you  here  in  the  presence  of  the  officers 
and  crew."  Addressing  the  mate,  he  said  :  "  Mr.  Wilson, 
take  off  that  ball  and  chain  and  throw  it  overboard  ;  so 
brave  a  man  could  never  have  deserved  such  a  fate." 

"  Thank  you  for  that  remark,  sir,"  said  Arthur.  "  I  am 
a  gentleman,  and  never  committed  the  crime  with  which  I 
was  charged.  You  will  live  to  see  the  day  when  my  inno- 
cence will  be  proved." 

"Mr.  Wilson,"  said  the  captain,  "take  off  his  convict 
clothes  ;  he  is  no  longer  a  prisoner.  We  will  make  up  a  kit 
for  him  among  us.  Here,  Mr.  Snow,"  addressing  the  second 
mate,  "  you  are  about  his  size  ;  take  him  below  and  see  what 
you  can  do  for  him." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Arthur,  ''but 
I  would  ask  one  favor.  Let  my  ball  and  chain  and  prison 
dress  be  taken  care  of  for  me,  and  if,  in  after  years,  I  am 
put  on  a  jury,  I  would  like  them  to  remind  me  of  the  un- 
just sentence  once  passed  upon  me." 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


229 


"Let  it  be  as  he  says,"  said  the  captain,  ''and  it  will  not 
be  my  fault  if  he  does  not  receive  a  full  pardon." 

All  this  time  the  ship  had  been  filled  with  the  groans 
and  yells  of  the  wounded  and  dying.  Fortunately,  there 
were  three  naval  surgeons,  passengers,  in  addition  to  the 
medical  officers  of  the  Kangaroo,  and  the  services  of  all 
were  needed.  On  examination  it  was  found  that  fifty  of  the 
convicts  had  been  killed  and  over  eighty  wounded.  Such 
was  the  effects  of  the  fire  that  many  of  the  dead  had  five  or 
six  balls  in  them,  and  the  condition  of  the  wounded  was 
dreadful.  Hellish  as  had  been  the  designs  of  the  convicts, 
humanity  required  that  their  wounds  should  receive  atten- 
tion. There  were  no  cots  on  board,  and  all  that  could  be 
done  was  to  lay  them  on  blankets  on  the  port  side  of  the 
deck.  There  a  hospital  was  formed,  and  such  of  the  crew 
as  could  be  spared  were  detailed  as  nurses.  The  dead  were 
thrown  overboard  without  ceremony,  except  a  general  prayer 
read  over  their  bodies  by  the  captain.  The  decks  were  then 
cleared  up,  and  in  twenty-four  hours  everything  had  been 
placed  in  good  condition,  so  that  few  signs  of  the  desperate 
conflict  were  apparent. 

Arthur  was  the  hero  of  the  hour.  V/hen  dressed  in  proper 
clothing,  he  looked  what  he  was,  a  handsome,  gentlemanly 
fellow,  and  his  story  was  soon  known  to  his  shipmates.  He 
had  received  three  slight  wounds  in  the  conflict — one  in  the 
left  wrist  from  a  knife,  one  in  the  shoulder  from  a  cutlass, 
and  one  in  the  leg  from  a  pike.  These  were  dressed,  and 
gave  him  little  trouble. 

The  day  following  the  fray  the  captain  assembled  all 
hands  on  deck  and  in  an  impressive  manner  offered  up 
prayers  to  God  for  their  happy  escape  from  a  dreadful 
death  which  would  have  been  inflicted  by  the  fiends  in 
human  shape.  And  then  he  spoke  in  kindly  terms  of  hx- 
thur,  saying  :  "  Without  his  timely  aid,  the  convicts  would 
have  gained  the  upper  deck  and  captured  the  Kangaroo. 
We  must  all  unite  to  have  him  restored  to  freedom  ;  no  stain 


230 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


should  rest  on  such  a  brave  man  as  that."  The  officers  and 
crew  all  shook  hands  with  him  in  good  sailor-fashion,  and 
he  received  their  kindness  in  a  manly  way,  and  then  walked 
aft  to  conceal  his  feelings. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning  when  land  was  made,  but  it  grew 
almost  calm  when  Melbourne  hove  in  sight,  and  the  impa- 
tient voyagers  longed  for  a  gale  to  bring  them  into  port. 
The  sea-breeze  soon  filled  the  fluttering  sails,  and  the  ship 
stood  in.  The  pilot  came  on  board  and  braced  full  the 
several  yards  and  sails  which  fretted  aloft  as  if  anxious  to 
gain  once  more  a  friendly  port ;  and  what  glowing  charms 
met  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  made  the  long  voyage  as  the 
ship  entered  the  spacious  harbor  ! 

As  the  Kangaroo  neared  the  anchorage,  a  flag  was  hoisted 
at  the  fore  to  show  that  mutineers  were  on  board,  and 
straightway  the  police  boat  came  off  to  the  ship,  which  had 
then  let  go  her  anchor.  All  the  ship's  company  breathed 
freely  once  more  ;  danger  now  was  past,  and  no  convicts, 
even  at  night,  could  rush  forth  to  massacre  those  who  were 
conveying  them  to  comparative  freedom  and  treating  them 
with  undeserved  kindness.  The  murderous  gang  were  se- 
cured and  taken  ashore,  only  the  badly  wounded  remaining 
on  board  ship. 

From  the  first  Arthur  had  volunteered  his  services  to 
assist  in  nursing  the  wounded,  for  though  demons  in  crime, 
when  wounded  and  suffering  they  were  as  full  of  the  weak- 
nesses of  humanity  as  men  of  more  Christian  character. 
One  of  the  wounded,  No.  47,  had  been  badly  mangled,  five 
balls  entering  his  body,  one  of  which  knocked  out  an  eye. 
He  was  a  distressing  object,  and  yet  God  had  spared  his  life, 
but  with  what  purpose  no  one  could  imagine,  for  he  was  one 
of  the  leaders  in  the  uprising.  The  surgeon  pronounced  his 
wounds  mortal,  and  said,  though  he  might  linger  for  some 
time,  he  would  probably  die  within  ten  days. 

No.  47  was  a  heavily  built,  ill-looking  ruffian.  He  had 
allowed  his  beard  to  grow  since  leaving  Millbank  prison, 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  231 

and  his  face  was  covered  with  hair  up  to  his  cheek-bones, 
so  that  his  most  intimate  acquaintance  would  not  have  recog- 
nized him.  His  sufferings  were  dreadful,  and  whatever 
sins  he  had  committed,  he  was  expiating  them  now.  He 
could  only  sleep  through  the  influence  of  anodynes,  and  his 
groans  could  be  heard  through  the  ship  by  night  and  day. 
As  he  seemed  to  be  most  in  need  of  help,  Arthur  told  the 
surgeon  he  would  take  charge  of  him,  to  which  the  latter 
replied  :   "  Do  so  ;  he  will  not  trouble  you  long." 

When  Arthur  assumed  the  care  of  No.  47  the  latter  was 
sleeping  more  quietly  than  usual.  Arthur  took  his  seat  be- 
side him,  and  now  and  then  put  his  hand  on  his  pulse.  The 
convict  at  length  opened  his  remaining  eye,  and  started  at 
seeing  a  man  sitting  at  his  side.  At  last  he  spoke  :  "  Am  I 
in  'ell }  And  'as  the  ghost  of  my  bitter  enemy  come  to  per- 
secute me  ?  Go  away  !  Don't  follow  me  'ere  ;  ye  troubled 
me  enough  on  earth  !  Oh  !  thank  the  devil,  ye've  'ad  a  'ard 
time  as  well  as  me,  an'  yer  old  afore  yer  time.  I  see  the 
marks  of  the  prison  on  yer  face,  an'  yer  'air's  turned  white. 
I'm  revenged  !     Go  away  with  ye;  don't  come  'ere  again." 

"Come,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Arthur,  ''  you  are  a  little 
feverish.     Take  this  and  try  to  sleep  ;  you  must  not  talk." 

''No,"  he  said,  turning  away,  "I'll  take  nothin'  from  ye, 
ye'll  want  to  pizen  me." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Arthur  ;  "  I  am  your  best  friend.  I  am 
here  to  take  care  of  you." 

"The  same  voice,"  said  No.  47,  "an'  the  same  gentle- 
man !  Worth  two  of  the  other  fellers,  an'  he  a  nussin'  me  ! 
How  queer!  I  hearn  he  was  done  fer. "  He  furtively 
watched  his  nurse  through  his  half-closed  eye,  for  he  could 
not  believe  that  any  one  would  take  an  interest  in  such  a 
VvTetch  as  he.  He  was  in  possession  of  his  senses,  though 
suffering  much  pain. 

Arthur  stood  with  the  anodyne  in  his  hand,  waiting  to 
administer  it,  and  seeing  the  convict's  eye  partly  open, 
said  :  "  Come,  my  friend,  take  this.     It  will  do  you  good." 


232  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

"  If  ye  knew  who  I  was  an'  what  I  done,  yer  wouldn't 
'elp  me  ter  sleep." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  would,"  said  Arthur.  *'  If  you  had  been  my 
worst  enemy  I  would  tend  you.     Come,  drink." 

''Oh,"  said  the  convict,  "there  it  is!  He  allers  was 
an'  allers  will  be  a  gentleman."  So  saying,  No.  47  took  the 
anodyne  and  slept. 

Arthur  told  the  surgeon  when  he  came  that  the  man 
had  been  somewhat  delirious  and  talked  at  random.  The 
doctor  felt  his  pulse,  and  remarked  that  it  was  quieter  than 
when  he  left,  and  then  went  on  to  another  patient. 

No.  47  slept  two  hours,  and  woke  up  asking  for  water. 
"  Here  is  some  lemonade,"  said  Arthur.  The  sick  man 
looked  at  him  keenly,  and  said  : 

"  Ah,  there  still  ?  An'  there  ye'll  be  till  judgment  day. 
I  can't  shake  it  off." 

''  I  am  your  nurse,"  said  Arthur.  "  Don't  be  afraid  of 
me,  I  will  stick  to  you  as  long  as  you  need  my  services." 

"  Not  if  ye  knowed  who  I  was  ye  wouldn't,"  said  the  con- 
vict. ''  I've  been  a  devil  in  my  day,  I've  been  yer  worst 
enemy.     I've  been — " 

"  Never  mind  what  you  have  been,"  interrupted  Arthur. 
''  Misfortune  makes  us  all  brothers,  and  if  you  had  done  me 
the  greatest  injury,  I  would  forgive  you  in  your  present 
condition." 

*'  Ah,"  said  the  convict,  "  ye  allers  was  the  gentleman,  an' 
when  ye  thrashed  me  so,  years  ago,  ye  did  it  like  a  gentle- 
man, an'  I  warn't  a  true  Briton  ter  'arbor  malice." 

"  Come,"  said  Arthur,  "  don't  talk  any  more  ;  you  are 
feverish,  and  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying." 

"  Don't  I .? "  said  the  convict.  ''  Lemme  ask  yer,  did  ye 
never  know  Miss  Elsie  Vernon  .?  " 

"  God  in  Heaven  I  "  exclaimed  Arthur,  "  who  are  you, 
and  where  did  you  hear  that  name  1 " 

"  When  I  tell  ye,"  said  the  convict,  "  that  it  was  me  as 
parted  ye  from  'er,  ye'll  leave  me  'ere  to  die  like  a  dog." 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  233 

Arthur's  first  impulse  was  to  spring  upon  the  man  and 
tear  him  to  pieces,  but  his  better  instincts  prevailed.  He  saw 
now  a  chance  of  clearing  up  the  mystery  in  his  case,  and  he 
knelt  beside  the  convict,  saying  :  "  No.  47,  let  me  tell  you 
candidly  that  you  have  to  make  your  peace  with  God,  for  you 
have  not  long  to  live.  Let  me  persuade  you  to  repent  of 
your  sins,  which  is  the  only  w^ay  you  can  expect  to  be  received 
into  heaven.  No  matter  what  your  crimes,  no  matter  what 
you  have  done  to  me,  I  forgive  you,  and  will  tend  you 
while  you  live  as  carefully  as  if  you  were  my  brother,  only 
tell  me  the  truth  and  right  a  great  wrong." 

"  Ye  allers  was  a  gentleman,"  said  the  convict,  "  while  I 
w^as  a  blackguard.  I  believe  it's  the  blood  in  my  veins  as 
hopperates  agin  me.  'Ye  can't  make  a  silk  purse  outer  a 
sow's  ear.'  Well,  I  believe  ye'll  stick  to  me,  an'  I  don't  want 
to  carry  this  to  t'other  world  an'  be  damned  fer  it.  It  was 
an  infernal  act,  an'  I'll  tell  yer,  only  give  me  time,  fer  I'm 
tired  now." 

*'  Then,  sleep,"  said  Arthur,  ''  and  I'll  hear  you  when  you 
v/ake  up.  But,  remember,  the  safety  of  your  soul  hereafter 
depends  on  your  telling  the  truth." 

The  convict  took  the  draught  and  w^as  soon  asleep.  Ar- 
thur went  at  once  to  the  captain  and  told  him  what  had 
occurred  that  morning,  and  also  gave  him  a  brief  outline  of 
his  life,  his  trial,  and  sentence.  "  Now,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  "  I 
see  the  hand  of  God  in  all  this.  What  I  thought  would  be 
misery  in  coming  on  this  voyage  will  be  my  salvation,  for 
I  am  sure  this  man  can  reveal  the  author  of  the  crime  for 
which  I  have  suffered,  and  that  he  will  be  the  means  of  re- 
storing me  my  reputation." 

''  Whatever  you  wish  in  the  matter  shall  be  done,"  said 
the  captain.   "  I  owe  you  too  much  to  refuse  you  anything." 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  "  will  you  send  for  a  magistrate 
and  have  this  convict's  deposition  taken  ?  He  seems  dis- 
posed to  make  a  confession." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  captain,  "I  will  do  so  at  once." 


234 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


As  the  boat  was  about  to  shove  off  from  the  naval  land- 
ing with  the  magistrate  on  board,  Mr.  Otis,  the  chaplain  of 
the  station,  came  down  and  asked  the  officer  of  the  boat 
to  take  him  on  board  the  Kangaroo.  "  I  am  told,"  he  said, 
"that  there  are  some  poor  fellows  on  board  who  need  re- 
ligious consolation.  I  would  like  to  do  all  in  my  power  to 
render  their  passage  from  this  world  to  the  next  as  easy  as 
possible." 

''Certainly,  sir,"  said  the  officer  of  the  boat,  "step  in 
and  come  on  board  ;  your  services  are  much  needed  there." 
The  boat  then  pulled  to  the  ship,  where  the  occupants 
were  met  at  the  gangway  by  the  captain.  The  chap- 
lain was  an  old  acquaintance,  and  was  received  with  great 
warmth. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  captain,  "  on  your  usual  errand  of  kindness 
to  the  unfortunate.  Well,  there  is  room  for  sympathy  here. 
We  have  some  fellows  who  have  been  badly  wounded  and  are 
likely  to  die,  and  they  want  assistance,  not  only  for  their  bod- 
ies, but  also  religious  consolation.  One  convict  in  particular 
I  would  like  you  to  see.  He  will  not  last  the  week  out,  and 
he  has  most  important  evidence  to  divulge  that  will  release  a 
very  worthy  young  man  from  the  suspicion  of  crime.  I 
am  sure  you  can  influence  the  man  to  make  a  full  confession 
before  he  dies.  He  has  been  a  desperate  sinner,  but  your 
kind  way  of  dealing  with  criminals  may  lead  to  the  best  re- 
sults and  restore  the  young  man  of  whom  I  speak  to  his 
friends.  I  will  introduce  you  to  the  young  fellow  and  let 
him  tell  you  his  interesting  story.  It  was  he  who  saved 
my  ship  and  the  lives  of  the  officers  and  crew  by  giving 
timely  notice  that  the  convicts  were  going  to  rise." 

Arthur  Merton  was  standing  aft  with  his  hand  on  the 
mizzen-topsail  halyards,  his  straw  hat  in  his  hand  and  his 
right  foot  thrown  across  his  left  in  true  sailor  fashion.    He 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  235 

was  dressed  in  a  neat  suit  of  blue,  given  him  by  the  mate, 
a  check  shirt  with  turned-down  collar,  and  a  black  silk  hand- 
kerchief tied  about  his  throat,  looking  as  handsome  a  sailor 
as  one  would  wish  to  see.  He  seemed  lost  in  thought,  and 
his  dark  eyes  had  that  look  which  we  see  in  the  eyes  of  those 
whose  minds  are  travehng  in  distant  scenes  and  thinking  of 
days  gone  by. 

"That  is  my  hero,"  said  the  captain,  "and  a  splendid 
specimen  he  is.  There  is  a  beautiful  girl,  if  she  is  still  living, 
whose  days  and  nights  are  spent  in  prayers  for  him.  His 
mother  has  lost  her  reason  owing  to  the  charges  brought 
against  him..  He  is  a  graduate  of  Cambridge,  too.  Look  at 
him ;  is  he  a  man  to  commit  crime  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  chaplain,  with  emphasis,  "  what  a 
splendid  specimen  of  manly  beauty  !  How  came  he  so  gray  ? 
I  never  saw  so  beautiful  a  face  ;  it  is  like  the  sculpture  of 
Antinous." 

Arthur's  hair  had  been  allowed  to  grow  long  since  he 
left  Millbank  prison,  and  the  breeze  was  blowing  his  curls 
about  his  bright  face,  which  was  the  picture  of  health  owing 
to  the  sea  voyage  and  the  renewed  hope  which  had  entered 
his  heart. 

"  Crime,"  said  the  chaplain,  "  could  never  become  the 
inmate  of  a  soul  like  that.  Pray,  introduce  me  to  him."  The 
captain  and  chaplain  were  close  at  Arthur's  side  before  he 
noticed  them,  and  then  he  blushed  like  a  girl  at  being  caught 
indulging  in  reverie. 

"  I  am  happy  to  know  you,  sir,"  said  the  chaplain,  after 
the  captain  had  introduced  Arthur.  "  I  am  told  you  are  a 
Cambridge  man.  That  is  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  us, 
and  I  shall  take  pleasure  in  talking  to  you  about  the  dear  old 
place."  Arthur's  eyes  brightened  at  once,  and  he  clasped 
the  chaplain's  hand  with  a  grip  that  made  the  latter's  fingers 

tingle. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  captain,  "  I  see  the  masonic  sympathy 
between  you  ;  go  and   get  acquainted  with  each  other,  and 


236  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

tell  him  your  story,  Merton."  The  good  captain  then  walked 
forward  and  joined  the  magistrate. 

Arthur  and  Mr.  Otis  sat  down  and  talked  together  very 
pleasantly  till  the  latter  stopped  suddenly,  saying  :  "  We  are 
losing  time ;  the  man  may  die  before  he  can  make  a  con- 
fession. From  what  the  captain  has  told  me  I  see  a  bright 
future  before  you." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Arthur,  "there  is  no  bright  future  before 
me.  Those  who  loved  me  and  whom  I  loved  most  are 
dead.  They  can  not  have  survived  my  disgrace,  though 
I  know  they  never  believed  in  my  guilt.  That  is  the  only 
comfort  I  have.  My  life  will  be  spent  in  this  clime,  where 
I  must  make  a  name  for  myself,  and  prove  that  I  never  was 
a  robber.  There  are  but  two  people  in  the  world  to  whom 
I  cling,  my  mother  and  my  afftanced  wife.  I  fear  my  mother 
died  of  grief  on  hearing  of  my  conviction.  My  affianced 
is  dead  to  me,  for  my  sentence  has  placed  a  barrier  between 
us.  Her  name  could  not  be  associated  with  that  of  a  convict  ; 
I  would  not  consent  to  it  if  she  would." 

"  These  are  sentiments  of  an  honest  mind,"  said  the  chap- 
lain. "  But  do  not  despair,  something  may  turn  up  that  you 
dream  not  of.  See  what  Providence  has  done — sent  you 
here  in  a  vessel  that  also  carried  the  man  who  injured  you 
and,  it  appears,  he  now  wishes  to  make  a  confession  that 
will  exonerate  you.  Providence  does  extraordinary  things, 
and  has  arranged  the  coincidence.  Tell  me  your  story. 
If  there  is  any  one  who  knows  how  to  work  upon  the  feelings 
of  a  convict  it  is  myself,  for  I  have  had  great  experience 
with  them.  Australia  is  full  of  them,  and  many  come  to  sud- 
den deaths.  They  have  led  depraved  lives  and  have  defied 
God  in  every  way,  yet  as  their  end  approaches,  all  are  desirous 
to  make  their  peace  with  their  Creator  when  made  to  under- 
stand that  there  is  hope  for  the  greatest  sinner  who  truly  re- 
pents. When  I  am  well  posted  I  will  go  to  work  and 
obtain  a  confession  from  the  convict,  who,  I  hear,  has  not 
long  to  live." 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  237 

x\rthur's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  listened  to  the  good 
man.  "  Your  heart  will  bleed  for  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  can 
not  look  forward  with  the  hope  that  you  do.  I  never  know- 
ingly did  a  wrong  in  my  life,  yet  Providence  parted  me  from 
all  I  loved  best  on  earth.  Providence  took  from  me  my 
good  name,  kept  me  in  prison  over  two  years,  during  which 
time  my  heart  was  broken,  and  sent  me,  a  condemned 
felon,  to  Australia  to  herd  with  the  worst  criminals  on  earth. 
*  It  is  a  poor  rule  that  won't  work  both  ways/  " 

''  Don't  say  that,"  said  the  chaplain.  "  There  is  a  mysteri- 
ous power  that  shapes  our  course  through  Hfe.  You  have 
been  tried  in  the  crucible  of  adversity  to  test  your  strength, 
and  to  show  the  metal  of  which  you  are  made.  We  do  not 
know  why  certain  things  happen,  but  may  be  sure  they  are 
not  without  design." 

Arthur  then  related  his  history  from  early  childhood  up 
to  the  time  he  arrived  in  Melbourne.  The  chaplain  inter- 
rupted him  on  many  occasions,  to  ascertain  if  there  was  any- 
thing on  v/hich  he  could  base  an  impression  as  to  his  secret 
enemy,  and  thought  deeply  all  the  time  Arthur  was  talking. 

"  And  you  think,"  said  the  chaplain,  "  that  this  convict 
can  give  a  clew  to  the  mystery  ?  What  are  your  grounds  for 
such  belief.''  " 

''Because,"  said  Arthur,  "he  referred  to  events  that 
happened  about  the  time  I  was  tried,  and  mentioned  a  name 
very  dear  to  me,  which  he  could  only  have  known  by  living 
in  that  locality.  Moreover,  he  seems  to  have  known  me 
well,  as  he  spoke  of  some  things  I  have  done." 

"  It  is  a  marvelous  story,"  said  the  chaplain,  with  tears 
of  sympathy  in  his  eyes.  "  I  never  listened  to  a  more  pain- 
ful one.  I  wonder  you  did  not  go  mad.  These  white  hairs 
are  the  best  proof  of  what  you  have  suffered  in  mind,  for  it 
is  only  the  more  refined  and  intelligent  who  suffer  such 
changes  of  the  hair.  Among  all  the  convicts  I  have  met  and 
attended,  I  have  never  met  one  who  was  afflicted  by  impris- 
onment   in    this  way.       They    are    generally    ignorant    and 


238  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

stolid,  and  imbued  with  little  feeling.  I  propose  to  take 
charge  of  the  man  before  he  undergoes  examination  by  the 
magistrate,  and  I  will  try  to  put  him  in  such  a  frame  of 
mind  that  he  will  answer  all  questions.  You  would  be  sur- 
prised to  see  how  these  ignorant  fellows  clutch  at  the  hope 
of  salvation  after  they  are  once  sure  that  such  a  thing  is 
within  their  reach  on  confession  of  their  sins.  Indeed, 
they  often  make  voluntary  confessions.  I  do  not  know  how 
hardened  this  particular  one  may  be,  but  I  hope  I  can 
bring  him  over,  as  I  know  so  well  how  to  handle  such  cases. 
Though  steeped  in  crime,  they  are  in  some  respects  like  chil- 
dren when  they  are  told  that  they  are  going  to  die,  and  that 
confession  and  repentance  will  absolve  them  from  punish- 
ment hereafter.  I  will  make  a  Christian  of  this  man  yet, 
and  he  may  give  you  back  your  liberty."  They  then  rose 
and  joined  the  captain,  who  had  been  patiently  waiting  for 
them  while  entertaining  the  magistrate. 

"I  have  heard  Mr.  Merton's  story,"  said  the  chaplain, 
addressing  the  captain,  "and  it  is  a  most  remarkable  one. 
I  am  satisfied  the  convict  will,  if  he  chooses,  be  able  to  elu- 
cidate the  mystery,  and  restore  our  young  friend  to  all  that 
he  has  lost.  Come,  sir,  please  introduce  me  to  the  pris- 
oner," 

The  party  descended  to  the  main  deck,  the  captain  cau- 
tioning the  magistrate  and  Arthur  to  sit  quietly  at  the  con- 
vict's head,  where  they  could  not  be  seen  by  him,  while  he 
introduced  the  chaplain  to  the  wounded  man.  The  latter 
was  lying  on  his  back,  in  a  troubled  sleep,  and  the  two  sat 
down  on  camp-stools  beside  the  cot  that  had  been  provided 
since  the  ship  came  into  port,  and  thus  they  awaited  his 
awaking.  Several  Sisters  of  Mercy  had  been  sent  from  shore 
to  attend  the  wounded,  and  one  of  them  sat  at  a  table  on 
the  other  side,  to  minister  to  the  wants  of  the  sick  man. 
The  convict  had  thrown  the  covers  from  his  chest,  and  his 
muscular  arms  were  lying  outside  the  bed,  a  model  of  physi- 
cal strength. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  239 

■^*  Did  you  ever  see  a  more  powerful  brute  ?  "  said  the 
captain,  in  a  whisper.  "  That  fellow  planned  the  mutiny. 
He  was  capable  of  any  villainy,  and  only  think  how  little 
mercy  would  have  been  extended  to  us  had  he  succeeded 
in  capturing  the  ship  !  He  and  his  gang  intended  to  cut 
the  throats  of  all  hands,  throw  us  overboard,  land  somewhere 
on  the  coast  of  Australia,  and  burn  the  ship." 

At  that  moment  the  convict  awoke,  and  cried  out: 
''  Water  !  I  am  dying  of  thirst ;  my  innards  are  on  fire." 
The  Sister  of  Mercy  handed  him  the  water,  and  he  drank  it 
greedily,  then,  turning  his  head  to  the  captain  and  chaplain, 
he  said,  in  a  husky  voice  :  "  Who  are  ye  ?  When  I  went  to 
sleep  Mr.  Merton  was  a-sittin'  'longside  o'  me.  I  want  to 
see  'im  ;  'e's  a  gentleman,  an'  no  mistake." 

"  This  is  Chaplain  Otis,  who  has  come  to  see  you,"  said 
the  captain  ;  "  and  he  wishes  to  minister  to  your  soul,  for 
you  are  in  a  very  precarious  condition." 

"  Soul  !  "  said  No.  47,  "  I  hain't  got  no  soul.  Fellers 
like  me  warn't  made  with  souls,  or  I  wouldn't  a  bin  'ere. 
My  father  'ad  no  soul  afore  me,  an'  'ow  can  I  be  expected  to 
'ave  one  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  chaplain,  "  you 
have  a  soul,  the  most  insignificant  of  God's  humanity  have 
souls,  only  they  sometimes  go  astray,  never  having  heard  of 
Christ  and  his  teachings.  Many  commit  sins  from  their 
ignorance  of  God's  laws.  Now,  captain,  if  you  will  leave 
me  alone  with  the  invalid,  I  think  I  can  convince  him  that 
he  not  only  has  a  soul,  but  that  there  is  a  chance  for  him  to 
enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,  if  he  truly  repents  of  all  his 
sins,  and  believes  in  Christ." 

"  That  would  be  a  deathbed  repentance,"  said  No.  47, 
"  an'  reminds  me  of  a  verse  some  feller  told  me,  when  I  was 
in  prison  : 

WTien  the  devil  was  sick  the  devil  a  monk  would  be, 
But  when  the  devil  got  well  the  devil  a  monk  was  he, 

or  somethin'  like  that." 


240 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


"Don't  talk  that  way,"  said  Mr.  Otis,  "but  just  let  me 
read  to  you  from  the  New  Testament  one  or  two  chapters 
from  St.  Matthew's  gospel  that  will  tell  you  who  our  Saviour 
was,  for  before  you  can  be  saved  you  must  know  Christ." 

"  Well,"  said  the  convict,  "  go  on  an'  read.  It  can't 
hurt  a  feller,  I  suppose,  though  it's  rather  late  in  the  day  to 
try  an'  whitewash  me  ;  I'm  black  as  charcoal,  an'  as  full  of 
crime  as  an  egg  is  of  meat.     Go  on." 

The  chaplain  read  the  second  chapter  of  St.  Matthew, 
to  which  he  listened  attentively,  and  when  the  reading  was 
concluded  the  convict  said  :  "  Read  me  some  more,  I  like 
it.     You've  a  nice  voice,  an'  it  soothes  me." 

The  third,  fourth,  and  fifth  chapters  were  read  to  him, 
and  then  Mr.  Otis  said  :  "  There,  that  will  do  for  to-day. 
Now  I  want  to  talk  with  you  and  explain  everything  to  you." 

''An'  it  was  Christ  who  you  say  can  save  me  from  'ell  ? " 
said  No.  47.  "  Well,  'e  must  'ave  bin  a  good  man.  There 
ain't  many  such  now,  is  there.?     I  never  knew  nary  one." 

"  No,"  said  the  chaplain,  '*  there  are  none  like  him  on 
earth.  He  was  the  Son  of  God,  who  came  on  earth  to  save 
sinners  and  establish  the  Christian  religion,  which  is  now  ex- 
tending all  over  the  earth,  and  is  saving  millions." 

"But,  I've  bin  a  terror,"  said  the  convict,  "I've  commit- 
ted every  crime  as  is  known  to  man." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  the  chaplain,  "there  is  hope  for 
you  if  you  truly  repent  and  confess  your  sins.  You  have 
done  much  harm,  and  one  man  of  whom  I  know  is  now  suf- 
fering for  your  crime.     I  mean  Mr.  Arthur  Merton." 

"What  do  ye  know  of  'im  ? "  said  the  convict,  starting 
and  trying  to  rise,  but  falling  back  from  pain  and  weakness. 

"I  know  all  about  him,"  said  Mr.  Otis.  "Don't  you 
know  Moorland  and  Woodlawn  in  Kent  ?  Do  you  not  know 
Miss  Elsie  Vernon,  Mrs.  Merton,  Squire  and  Mrs.  Pentland, 
and  Mr.  Ronald  Pentland  }  And  do  you  not  know  all  about 
the  notes  stolen  from  the  banking-house  of  Childs  and  Co., 
and  how  the  theft  was  fixed  upon  Arthur  Merton  ?" 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  24 1 

The  cold  sweat  broke  out  all  over  the  convict's  body, 
and  large  drops  of  perspiration  covered  his  forehead.  His 
face  grew  paler,  and  he  looked  as  if  about  to  die.  ''Who 
are  ye,"  he  demanded,  '*  as  knows  so  much  of  me.^  Are 
ye  a  detective,  come  'ere  to  pump  me  ?  I  thought  ye  was  a 
parson." 

"  I  am  a  minister  of  Christ,"  said  the  chaplain,  "  and  am 
here  to  save  your  soul  if  I  can  do  so  ;  but  the  first  step  is  a 
confession  of  your  sins  and  repentance  for  what  you  have 
done.  If  you  conceal  any  ill  act  of  your  life  it  will  be  de- 
ception, and  worse  than  if  you  did  not  confess  at  all.  If 
you  have  done  any  one  a  wrong  you  can  not  expect  for- 
giveness until  you  have  made  amends  for  it,  and  I  say  to 
you  now  that  if  you  die  with  this  great  sin  on  your  soul  and 
offer  no  repentance  by  confession,  you  can  not  enter  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven,  but  your  soul  will  wander  in  the  re- 
gions of  hell  until  eternity,  suffering  for  the  sins  you  have 
committed  on  earth,  all  of  which  you  can  escape  by  making 
a  full  confession  of  your  crimes  and  the  injuries  you  have 
done  to  others." 

"  Will  that  save  me  from  'ell.^  "  asked  the  convict. 

*'  If  you  sincerely  repent,"  said  the  chaplain  ;  "  Christ 
tells  us  so." 

"  Ow  much  time  'ave  I  to  repent  in  .^  "  he  asked. 

"  Perhaps  a  week,  perhaps  ten  days,"  was  the  reply, 
'*  but  in  that  time  your  heart  could  become  clean,  and  you 
would  abhor  all  the  wickedness  you  have  done  in  your  life. 
But  let  me  pray  to  God  to  forgive  your  sins.  There  is 
nothing  so  efficacious  as  prayer  for  a  spirit  that  has  been 
steeped  in  sin.  It  makes  a  man  see  himself  as  he  is,  and  it 
softens  his  heart  toward  those  he  has  injured.  Now,  listen 
to  me  with  all  your  heart  and  soul,  for  what  I  am  about  to 
say  has  conquered  hearts  as  hard  and  corrupt  as  yours." 

**  I'm  willin'  to  be  just,"  said  the  convict,  "  and  there's 
one  person  in  particular  I'd  like  to  do  justice  to  afore  I 
die,  an'  that's  Mr.  Arthur  Merton.  He's  a  gentleman  all 
16 


242 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


over,  an'  'as  tended  me  like  a  brother — me  as  give  him  such 
a  orful  lick,  that  brought  him  all  his  trouble." 

"Then,  listen  to  me  while  I  am  praying  with  you,"  said 
the  chaplain.  "  It  will  make  you  more  anxious  still  to  see 
justice  done  him," 

Mr.  Otis  prayed  aloud  over  the  doomed  man  with  a  fer- 
vor that  might  have  moved  a  deeper  sinner  than  the  convict, 
could  such  a  one  have  been  found.  The  chaplain,  knowing 
what  the  general  life  of  a  convict  was,  and  supposing  some 
of  the  crimes  that  No.  47  had  committed,  laid  great  stress 
on  these  acts,  and  prayed  God  that  he  should  repent  and 
confess,  and  be  able  to  accept  the  mercy  Christ  offered  the 
repentant  sinner. 

The  convict  listened  very  attentively,  and  when  the 
prayer  was  ended  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "  I  wish,"  he  said, 
''  I'd  'ave  'eard  all  that  when  I  was  young  ;  I'd  a  lived  a  bet- 
ter life.  My  father  and  mother  never  went  to  church,  and 
when  I  poached  and  trapped  pheasants  an'  'ares,  I  was  pat- 
ted on  the  back  when  they  were  put  in  the  pot.  I  don't 
know  as  I  could  become  a  Christian,  but  I'd  like  to  keep 
out  of  'ell,  an'  I'll  confess  everything  I  ever  done.  What's 
the  use  of  me  denyin'  now.^  I  shall  soon  step  inter  the  'ole 
where  I've  seen  so  many  go,  an'  it  might  as  well  be  known 
now  as  on  the  judgment  day,  when,  you  say,  all  that  was 
ever  done  in  the  world  will  be  known.  An'  I'd  like  it  all 
writ  down  for  the  benefit  of  other  poor  devils  like  me  as 
never  'ad  no  teachin'  an'  honly  knew  when  it  was  too  late 
that  there's  a  settlin'  day  for  'em  hereafter  in  another  world. 
Lemme  get  to  work  confessin'  afore  the  time  rushes  on  me 
to  pass  in  my  checks,  for  I  feel  stronger  since  ye  prayed  for 
me." 

"  Sister,"  said  Mr.  Otis  to  the  Sister  of  Mercy,  "  give  him 
some  broth,  and  he  will  feel  better  able  to  make  his  confes- 
sion. I  will  confer  with  the  magistrate,  my  good  fellow, 
while  you  take  your  refreshment.  He  has  come  off  to  wit- 
ness your  confession,  for  I  felt  sure  you  would  make  one." 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  243 

"Well,  ye  was  right,"  said  No.  47,  "an'  make  it  I  will. 
The  sooner  ye  bring  on  the  magistrate  the  better,  for  some- 
thin'  might  happen  to  make  me  change  my  mind.  I'm  just 
in  the  humor  now  an'  feel  strong  an'  'earty." 

Mr.  Otis  beckoned  to  Arthur,  the  magistrate,  and  the 
captain,  all  of  whom  had  been  seated  near,  listening  and 
admiring  the  manner  in  which  the  chaplain  had  so  soon 
brought  the  convict  to  a  sense  of  his  duty,  but  sickness  is  a 
great  softener  of  character,  and  "  when  pain  and  anguish 
wring  the  brow  "  and  death  stares  one  in  the  face,  the  hard- 
est criminal  often  succumbs,  and  is  only  too  glad  to  accept 
the  hope  of  mercy  from  Heaven  held  out  to  him.  The 
worst  sinners  are  then  the  most  repentant,  and  here  was  an 
instance. 

"  Mr.  Magistrate,"  said  the  chaplain,  "  please  listen  to  the 
invalid's  confession,  and  I  will  act  as  amanuensis.  Mr. 
Merton,  sit  on  the  left  side,  where  the  poor  fellow  can  see 
you.  Captain,  please  sit  near  his  head,  where  you  can  hear 
all  he  says."  He  also  directed  the  Sister  of  Mercy  to  be 
ready  to  administer  wine  or  broth  in  case  the  convict  be- 
came exhausted. 

"No  fear  of  that,"  said  the  convict,  in  his  husky  voice  ; 
"  an'  I  want  Mr.  Arthur  to  sit  just  where  I  kin  see  'im  all 
the  time,  fer  what  I've  got  ter  say  much  concerns  'im,  an' 
'e'U  see  that  Bill  Briggs  won't  tell  a  lie  in  'is  dyin'  moments. 
An'  I'll  put  'im  on  his  feet  again,  if  I  hang  for  it.  He  allers 
was  a  gentleman,  it's  in  the  blood,  an*  I  want  to  see  him  get 
'is  own  again.  Yes,  Mr.  Arthur,  sit  where  I  kin  see  yer 
gray  hairs  which  was  brought  about  by  my  doin's  an' 
another  as  will  astonish  ye  even  when  yer  knows  who  'e  be." 

"  Bill  Briggs ! "  exclaimed  Arthur,  jumping  from  his 
chair.  "  Great  mercy  !  who  would  have  dreamed  of  this  ? 
I  never  suspected  it  was  you.  You  are  very  much 
changed." 

"An'  ye  wouldn't  'ave  tended  me  like  a  brother  if  ye'd 
a  known  it  was  me  ?  " 


244 


ARTHUR  MERTON, 


**  Exactly  the  same,"  said  Arthur,  "  we  are  brothers  in 
affliction,  and  I  would  have  attended  to  you  the  same  if  I 
had  known  you  had  done  me  the  greatest  harm  in  the 
world." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Briggs,  ''  ye  must  be  one  of  them 
Christians  the  parson's  bin  tellin'  about,  an'  now  I  tell  ye 
I'm  the  man  as  put  yer  in  Millbank  prison,  an'  if  ye'll  for- 
give me  that,  an'  just  shake  hands  with  me,  I'll  know  ye're  a 
Christian." 

"  Yes,"  said  Arthur,  "  I'll  shake  hands  with  you,  and 
forgive  you,  for  you  will  soon  have  to  answer  to  a  higher 
power.  But  how  could  I  have  incurred  your  enmity  .^  I 
can  not  conceive." 

"  Why,"  said  the  convict,  "  fer  givin'  me  a  thrashin'  in  a 
fair  stand-up  fight  when  we  was  both  lads,  which  ye  must 
remember.     Now,  listen,  an'  I'll  tell  yer  all  about  it." 


CHAPTER   XX. 

The  convict,  when  raised  on  his  pillow  asked  for  wine, 
and  then  commenced  his  confession,  which,  stripped  of 
slang  and  reduced  to  plain  English,  was  as  follows  : 

**  My  name  is  Bill  Briggs,  alias  Bill  Dexter,  alias  '  the 
Nipper,'  alias  Bill  Tiger,  by  all  of  which  names  I  have  been 
known  by  my  pals.  I  was  born  in  the  county  of  Kent,  near 
the  estate  of  Squire  Pentland.  I  had  very  little  instruction, 
and  in  early  youth  was  a  finished  poacher,  encouraged  by 
my  parents  to  steal  game  from  the  gentlemen's  preserves. 
One  day,  while  setting  my  traps  on  Squire  Pentland's  estate, 
I  noticed  two  young  gentlemen  coming  my  way,  fine-look- 
ing fellows,  about  my  own  age,  though  not  so  stout.  I  was 
*  a  rough '  of  the  worst  kind,  made  so  by  my  associations, 
and,  above  all  things,  I  hated  *  a  swell.' 

"  So  I  looked  upon  these  two  young  men  as  my  natural 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  245 

enemies,  and  determined  to  insult  them,  thinking  that  I  could 
thrash  both  together,  for  I  was  very  strong,  and  a  regular 
'bruiser.'  As  the  young  gentlemen  passed  I  used  provoking 
language  to  them.  They  were  Mr.  Ronald  Pentland  and 
Mr.  Arthur  ]\Ierton.  The  former  threatened  to  punish  me, 
•  vrhen  I  challenged  them  both,  expecting  to  have  an  easy 
time  of  it,  but  Mr.  Merton  insisted  on  undertaking  the  job 
of  whipping  me.  We  stood  up  and  faced  each  other,  and  I 
must  confess  that  in  ten  minutes  I  got  the  worst  thrashing 
I  ever  had  in  my  life,  w^hile  Mr.  Merton  hardly  received  a 
scratch.  He  was  a  gentleman  all  over,  and  treated  me  first 
rate,  for  he  gave  me  back  my  boots,  which  I  had  put  up 
against  his,  and  brought  me  to,  after  he  had  knocked  the 
senses  out  of  me.  Had  I  been  a  full-blooded  English  boy 
I  would  not  have  minded  the  thrashing,  but  the  Welsh  blood 
in  me  prevailed,  and  I  did  not  forget  it.  I  determined  to 
be  revenged  on  Mr.  Merton  if  it  cost  me  my  life,  and  my 
days  and  nights  were  spent  in  working  out  a  plan  to  ruin 
him. 

"  Mr.  Merton  and  Mr.  Pentland  came  home  from  Cam- 
bridge when  they  were  about  of  age.  While  they  were  at 
•school  I  had  got  a  place  as  under  keeper  on  Squire  Pentland's 
estate.  I  had  grown  a  good  deal,  and  supposed  that  the 
young  men  wouldn't  know  me.  I  went  out  shooting  with 
them,  to  beat  the  bushes  and  start  the  game,  and  always 
carried  a  gun.  I  was  often  tempted  to  put  a  ball  into  Mr. 
Arthur,  but  I  was  too  great  a  coward  to  run  the  risk  of 
having  my  neck  stretched,  although  it  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had  killed  him  and  not  let  him  suffer  as  he  has 
done  since. 

"  The  rector  of  the  parish  had  a  daughter.  Miss  Elsie 
Vernon  ;  she  was  four  years  younger  than  the  young  men, 
and,  to  my  mind,  she  was  as  lovely  as  an  angel.  It  was 
after  I  got  my  thrashing  from  Arthur  Merton  that  I  noticed 
how  friendly  the  three  young  people  were,  and  I  loved  to 
get  into  a  little  hut  in  the  Vernon  woods  and  watch  them 


246  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

together,  and  thinks  I  to  myself,  *  I  can  get  even  with 
Merton  better  here  than  in  any  other  way.'  Though  I  had 
received  little  schooling,  and  was  an  ignorant  clodhopper, 
yet  I  had  cunning  and  understood  human  nature.  I  knew 
that  the  friendliness  between  the  young  people  would  end 
in  love  on  the  part  of  the  young  men,  and  that  Elsie  would 
love  one  of  them.  If  she  should  love  Merton  I  was  sure  of 
my  revenge  by  ways  that  I  could  work  out.  If  she  loved 
Ronald,  I  should  have  the  satisfaction  of  wrecking  Merton's 
life,  for  I  knew  that  he  would  love  but  once,  and  that  would 
be  with  his  whole  soul,  and  that  he  would  suffer  more 
under  a  disappointment  than  Ronald.  At  first  I  deter- 
mined to  ruin  his  character,  so  that  Elsie  would  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  him,  but  I  could  not  think  of  any  plan  to 
carry  out  my  purpose,  and  so  let  things  run  on,  but  there 
was  not  a  day  passed  that  I  did  not  lie  down  in  that  hut 
and  watch  those  three  young  people  as  a  cat  watches  a 
mouse.  To  enable  me  to  better  watch  their  movements,  I 
one  day  stole  a  field-glass  they  left  lying  on  the  mound, 
and  hid  it  in  my  hut.  I  watched  them  closely  the  next  day, 
and  soon  made  up  my  mind  which  way  the  wind  blew. 

"  Miss  Elsie  was  a  capricious  little  creature,  and  made 
the  two  young  men  her  slaves.  She  was  fond  of  them  both, 
but  as  I  watched  her  face  through  the  glass  I  soon  saw 
that  she  had  given  her  heart  to  Arthur.  When  she  would 
sometimes  be  running  about  the  lawn  arm  in  arm  with  Ron- 
ald, she  would  return  to  Arthur  and  look  up  into  his  face 
with  her  beautiful  eyes,  as  if  to  ask  if  he  approved,  and  he 
would  give  her  a  look  which  seemed  to  say  :  'You  can  never 
do  wrong.'  When  the  young  gentlemen  left  in  the  afternoon 
she  would  run  up-stairs  and  watch  them  from  her  window, 
and  if  they  should  part  at  the  end  of  the  woods  to  go  their 
separate  ways,  her  glass  would  be  kept  leveled  upon  Arthur 
until  he  got  out  of  sight.  I  watched  them  in  this  way  for 
four  weeks,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  though  Arthur 
Merton  and  Elsie  Vernon  loved    each   other,  neither  was 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  247 

aware  that  it  was  anything  more  than  the  love  of  a  brother 
and  sister. 

"  I  can  not  tell  you  the  delight  I  took  in  this  watching. 
In  the  first  place  my  motives  were  revenge,  in  the  second 
place  I  took  a  pleasure  in  looking  at  this  beautiful  girl,  and 
would  have  given  my  life  to  have  touched  the  hem  of  her 
garment  or  even  to  have  had  her  tread  upon  me.  I  looked 
upon  both  the  young  men  with  bitter  hatred,  and  determined 
that  neither  of  them  should  ever  possess  her. 

"  One  day  Ronald  Pentland  was  thrown  from  his  horse 
and  badly  bruised,  so  that  he  was  laid  up  for  weeks.  Then 
Arthur  Merton  came  to  see  Miss  Elsie  alone,  which  he  had 
never  done  before.  It  seemed  to  be  an  understood  thing 
with  the  two  young  men  that  they  were  always  to  go  together 
and  to  do  nothing  to  take  advantage  of  each  other.  On 
the  day  that  Arthur  went  to  tell  her  of  the  accident  that  had 
happened  to  Ronald,  they  remained  in  the  house  several 
hours,  and  I  watched  in  vain,  but  when  they  came  out  I  saw 
through  the  glass  that  he  had  told  her  his  love  tale.  Their 
faces  were  bright  as  a  summer  morning.  She  hung  on  his 
arm,  which  she  had  never  done  before,  and  regarded  him  as 
if  he  were  the  only  being  in  the  world,  while  Arthur  looked 
as  if  he  had  gained  a  kingdom.  If  I  had  had  a  loaded 
gun  at  that  moment,  I  would  have  shot  them  both,  for  my 
feelings  were  actually  devouring  me. 

"  They  sat  three  hours  on  the  mound  while  she  fed  her 
doves,  he  now  and  then  kissing  her,  which  almost  maddened 
me.  Then  they  parted,  she  standing  to  watch  him  until  he 
was  out  of  sight,  and  I  sneaked  off.  I  watched  them  for  days, 
until  Ronald  Pentland  was  able  to  come  down-stairs,  when  I 
went  to  him  in  the  summer-house  and  told  him  what  I  had 
seen.  He  was  wild  with  rage  and  jealousy,  and  I  worked 
his  feelings  up  to  such  a  pitch  that  he  was  like  putty  in  my 
hands.  The  next  day  I  took  him  to  see  for  himself,  and 
finally  he  became  so  intensely  '  outraged,'  as  he  expressed 
it,  that  he  entered  into  my  plans,  which  were  hinted  to  him 


248  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

though  not  actually  revealed.  He  nursed  his  wrath,  as  I 
did,  with  a  full  determination  to  destroy  his  rival  by  fair 
means  or  foul. 

"  A  few  days  after  the  two  young  gentlemen  went  to 
London  to  enter  banking-houses,  and  it  was  so  arranged  be- 
tween Mr.  Ronald  and  myself  that  I  was  to  follow  in  a 
short  time  and  we  would  concert  plans  for  the  destruction 
of  Arthur  Merton." 

*'  I  can  not  believe  that,  it  is  too  dreadful !  "  said  Arthur, 
starting  up,  his  face  white  with  horror. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  said  the  dying  man,  "  there  is  worse  than 
that  coming  and  you  will  need  all  your  nerve  to  listen  to  it. 

*'  Ronald  Pentland  did  all  he  could  to  draw  Mr.  Arthur 
into  scenes  of  dissipation  and  to  entice  him  into  gambling- 
rooms.  Failing  in  his  projects  to  lead  him  into  evil  ways,  he 
proceeded  to  other  measures.  From  this  time  Mr.  Ronald 
became  leader,  and  no  hound  ever  followed  the  scent  of  his 
game  as  he  followed  in  pursuit  of  his  friend. 

'*  One  day,  about  noon,  he  stopped  at  the  place  where  I 
lived,  near  Leadenhall  Street,  where  he  required  that  I  should 
be  in  the  day-time  provided  with  tools  for  certain  emergen- 
cies. I  could  only  be  away  nights,  and  then  I  sought  the 
slums  of  London,  where  I  associated  with  criminals,  learned 
all  their  tricks,  and  in  a  short  time  was  an  expert  burglar. 
When  Mr.  Pentland  came  to  my  house,  he  said  to  me  :  '  The 
chance  offers  now  to  ruin  our  enemy  forever,  but  you  must 
be  quick  about  it.  I  left  Childs  and  Co.'s  not  five  min- 
utes ago.  The  door  leading  to  the  banker's  room  is  un- 
locked, the  porter  is  asleep,  and  there  are  only  two  clerks  in 
the  place.  In  the  banker's  room  is  a  wire  screen,  behind 
which  he  sits  when  at  work.  It  is  locked,  but  you  can  get 
over  the  top  if  you  have  no  key  that  will  open  it.  On  the 
table  inside  the  screen  is  a  yellow  package  marked  "  Bank 
of  England."  Go  at  once  and  get  it ;  escape  by  the  back 
window.     You  know  the  premises  ;  I  leave  the  rest  to  you.' 

"  '  And  if  I  get  my  neck  stretched,  what  then  ? '  I  said. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  249 

" '  You  must  run  your  chances,'  he  said,  *  but  it  is  all 
plain  sailing.' 

"  I  started  off,  went  to  the  bank,  found  the  porter  fast 
asleep,  opened  the  door  and  slipped  into  the  banker's  private 
office.  I  had  no  time  to  lose  in  trying  keys,  but  being  very 
active,  was  over  the  top  of  the  cage  in  a  minute,  took  the 
package,  got  back  over  the  screen,  opened  the  window,  and 
got  out  without  any  one  seeing  me.  There  was  a  high  wall 
with  broken  glass  bottles  on  its  top  and  a  heavy  iron  pipe 
to  carry  water  from  the  roof,  up  which  I  climbed  until  I 
reached  the  top  of  the  wall,  knocked  away  the  glass  bottles 
with  a  hammer  I  had  in  my  pocket,  rove  a  silk  rope  between 
the  pipe  and  the  wall,  lowered  myself  down  into  the  alley, 
and  made  off,  carrying  my  rope  with  me  and  leaving  no  sign 
that  a  detective  could  work  on.  When  I  put  that  package 
in  Ronald  Pentland's  hands,  he  capered  about  like  a  wild 
man.  '  Now,'  he  said,  *he  can't  escape  us,  Elsie  will  never 
be  his.' 

*'  The  robbery  made  a  great  stir,  but  the  detectives  could 
never  have  found  a  trace  of  the  notes  but  for  me,  and  now 
came  the  question,  how  to  fasten  the  robbery  on  Arthur 
Merton.  I  had  a  cousin  living  in  London,  who  was  staying 
in  the  house  where  I  lived.  She  was  in  bad  health,  and 
could  not  go  out  to  work,  so  I  paid  her  board  and  doctor's 
bills.  The  doctor  told  me  she  had  only  three  weeks  of  life 
in  her,  and  might  go  off  any  time,  as  she  had   consumption. 

"  I  hired  a  furnished  house  in  Charing  Cross,  and  when 
I  saw  that  my  cousin  was  failing  fast  moved  her  to  this 
place,  much  to  her  delight,  for  she  had  few  comforts  where 
she  had  resided.  Ronald  Pentland  gave  me  all  the  money 
I  asked  for,  and  was  much  pleased  when  I  presented  my 
project  to  him.  I  kept  my  cousin  over  two  weeks  at  the 
house,  when  she  began  to  sink  rapidly.  Then  I  got  Ronald 
to  write  a  note  to  Mr.  Arthur,  in  a  disguised  hand,  signed 
'  Charlotte  Foster,'  representing  herself  as  a  former  ac- 
quaintance of  his  mother's,  and  begging  him  to  come  and 


250 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


see  her,  as  she  was  in  distress.  I  felt  sure  he  would  come, 
and  gave  notice  to  the  detectives,  with  whom  I  had  been  in 
correspondence,  that  I  would  deliver  up  the  bank-robber  to 
them  if  they  would  be  at  the  place  mentioned. 

"  Mr.  Merton  came  to  the  house  exactly  at  the  time  I 
calculated,  and  ascended  the  steps,  where  I  was  disguised 
and  waiting  for  him.  He  asked  for  Charlotte  Foster,  and 
I  showed  him  my  cousin's  room,  where  he  was  locked  in. 
My  cousin  was  dying  when  he  went  into  that  room.  I  had 
left  a  jar  of  chloroform  uncorked  in  the  room,  intending 
that  he  should  be  overcome  by  the  fumes.  I  really  forgot 
that  they  might  affect  my  cousin,  and,  unfortunately,  the 
chloroform  killed  her. 

"  As  soon  as  I  had  fastened  the  door  on  Arthur  Merton, 
I  ran  through  a  cross-entry  to  a  room  in  the  rear,  and, 
looking  through  the  keyhole,  saw  him  bending  over  the 
dead  body,  apparently  dazed.  I  opened  the  door  suddenly, 
knocked  him  senseless  with  a  sand-bag,  and  chloroformed 
him,  to  render  him  helpless,  caring  very  little  whether  I 
killed  him  or  not.  Then  I  sewed  the  bank-notes  up  in  the 
breast-pocket  of  his  coat,  except  a  hundred-pound  note  and 
some  sovereigns,  which  I  placed  in  his  vest-pocket,  and  a 
hundred-pound  note  which  I  put  in  an  ornament  on  the 
mantelpiece.  This  done,  I  took  his  handkerchief,  marked 
with  his  initials,  and  tied  it  strongly  around  the  dead 
woman's  neck,  to  make  it  appear  that  Merton  had  strangled 
her.  I  then  opened  the  doors,  and  he  began  to  revive.  He 
got  up  and  went  to  the  bedside,  and,  seeing  the  corpse  with 
tongue  protruding  and  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets, 
staggered  down  the  steps  and  out  of  doors. 

"  It  was  a  foggy  night,  and  the  gaslights  could  hardly  be 
discerned  at  a  few  feet  distance,  but  I  had  my  detectives  at 
the  front  of  the  house,  and  as  he  landed  on  the  pavement, 
pointed  him  out  to  them.  I  said  :  *  That's  your  man,  and 
his  girl  lives  in  that  house.'  The  detectives  seized  him 
and  carried  him  back  to  the  dead  woman's  room,  where 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  25 1 

they  soon  found  evidence  enough  against  him,  while  I 
slipped  off.  I  intended  that  he  should  be  convicted  of 
murder,  but  failed  in  that.  He  was  convicted  of  robbing 
the  bank,  and  never  was  there  a  more  innocent  man  sent 
to  prison.  Those  who  should  have  suffered  were  Ronald 
Pentland  and  myself.  Pentland  was  the  worst,  for  he 
planned  the  whole  affair.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say  about 
this  matter,  and  every  word  is  true,  so  help  me  God." 

"  But,"  said  Arthur,  sternly,  "  how  can  we  know  that 
this  confession  is  true,  coming  from  a  man  who  has  com- 
mitted so  many  crimes  ?  You  may  want  to  fix  the  crime 
on  Ronald  Pentland  to  exonerate  yourself  and  escape  pun- 
ishment." 

'*  Sir,"  said  the  convict,  "  I  am  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
law.  In  tvy-o  or  three  days  at  most  I  shall  be  dead,  and 
the  parson,  who  has  prayed  with  me  and  told  me  that  there 
is  hope  hereafter  for  so  great  a  criminal  as  I  am,  has  also 
taught  me  that  I  must  not  appear  in  the  presence  of  God 
with  a  lie  upon  my  lips.  I  am  ready  to  take  my  solemn 
oath  to  all  the  facts  I  have  stated."  In  the  last  few  min- 
utes he  had  been  leaning  upon  his  elbow,  but  he  fell  back 
exhausted,  and  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  die  at  once. 
They  gave  him  stimulants,  after  which  he  was  able  to  sign 
the  affidavit  drawn  up  by  the  magistrate,  which  was  wit- 
nessed by  the  captain,  the  surgeon,  and  the  chaplain.  The 
convict  was  then  allowed  to  sleep. 

When  the  paper  was  properly  executed.  Chaplain  Otis 
took  Arthur  by  the  hand.  "  Now,  my  young  friend,"  he 
said,  "you  are  sure  of  your  liberty.  With  this  paper  you  can 
go  to  the  Governor,  who  will  write  home  and  ask  for  a  full 
pardon,  which  will  be  granted  you  at  once,  and,  no  doubt, 
the  Government  will  recompense  you,  as  far  as  possible,  for 
the  injustice  done  you.  Yours  has  been  the  hardest  trial  I 
ever  heard  of,  and  you  have  come  out  of  it  without  a  stain 
upon  your  character.  Your  life,  though  hitherto  imbittered, 
will  be  rendered  the  sweeter  for  the  vicissitudes  through 


252  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

which  you  have  passed,  and  your  story  will  make  you  a 
hundred  friends  where  you  had  one  before.  I  feel  like 
prophesying  that  you  will  return  to  your  native  land  and 
find  there  much  joy  in  store  for  you  ;  and  may  God  render 
your  future  years  so  full  of  happiness  that  you  will  look 
back  upon  the  misery  you  have  passed  through  merely  as 
an  unpleasant  nightmare."  Then  all  came  forward  and 
congratulated  Arthur,  and  the  captain  invited  them  to  a 
luncheon  in  his  cabin,  where,  after  two  hours  of  festivity, 
the  company  departed  to  their  respective  stations. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

When  the  confession  of  Bill  Briggs  was  written  out  in 
due  form,  Chaplain  Otis  laid  the  matter  before  the  Gov- 
ernor, informing  the  latter  of  all  the  facts  of  which  he  was 
cognizant  in  Arthur  Merton's  case.  The  Governor  took  a 
deep  interest  in  the  matter,  and  promptly  issued  an  order 
restoring  Arthur  to  liberty,  on  condition,  however,  that  he 
was  not  to  leave  Melbourne  until  the  home  authorities 
were  heard  from,  when,  no  doubt,  a  full  pardon  would  be 
granted. 

This  was  a  disappointment  to  Arthur,  who  hoped  to  be 
able  to  return  to  England  by  the  next  steamer,  but  he  de- 
termined to  restrain  his  impatience  for  the  next  four  months, 
and,  in  the  mean  time,  try  to  obtain  employment  in  the  city 
to  maintain  himself.  There  was  every  prospect  of  his  being 
able  to  do  this,  for  his  courage  on  the  occasion  of  the  mu- 
tiny had  been  praised  in  the  papers,  and  there  was  no  doubt 
of  his  being  received  everywhere  with  applause  ;  his  appear- 
ance would  be  in  his  favor,  and  Captain  Albatross  and  the 
chaplain  agreed  to  assist  him  in  every  way  possible. 

When  the  captain  heard  that  Arthur  had  been  restored 
to  liberty,  he  warmly  congratulated  him  and,  giving  him  a 


ARTHUR  MERTOX.  253 

twenty-pound  note,  said  :  "  Take  that  for  present  use,  and  re- 
turn it  at  your  convenience.    If  you  want  more,  come  to  me." 

Arthur  thanked  the  captain,  and  felt  as  happy  as  a  man 
could  under  the  circumstances.  The  brand  of  "  thief  "  was 
removed  from  him,  his  innocence  was  estabUshed,  and  though 
he  feared  that  sorrow  might  be  in  store  for  him  on  his  return 
home,  yet  he  put  his  trust  in  God  and  hoped  that  his  burden 
might  not  be  too  heavy  to  bear. 

Amons  the  wounded  convicts  on  board  the  Kangaroo 
who  came  under  Arthur's  care  was  No.  40,  who  was  mentioned 
as  the  only  one  in  Millbank  prison  who  had  had  any  sym- 
pathy with  Arthur.  From  the  old  man's  account,  he  was  un- 
aware of  the  intended  uprising  of  the  convicts,  but  about  four 
hours  before  the  mutineers  broke  out,  he  saw  some  of  them 
stealthily  crawling  about  the  cage  and  communicating  with 
others  in  the  two  contiguous  sections.  This  aroused  his 
suspicions,  especially  when  he  saw  a  man  outside,  near  the 
bow,  pass  in  something,  and  heard  one  convict  whisper  to 
another  :  "The  signal  will  be  given  at  six  bells  in  the  mid 
watch." 

He  caught  the  man  by  the  sleeve,  and  said  :  "  For  God's 
sake,  don't  attempt  a  mutiny,  or  you  will  all  be  killed.  To 
save  your  lives  I  will  arouse  the  guard."  As  he  said  this, 
the  two  men  seized  him  by  the  throat  and,  throwing  him  on 
deck,  laid  upon  his  body  until  he  was  nearly  dead.  Thrust- 
ing a  small  swab  into  his  mouth  to  make  matters  certain, 
they  left  him  to  his  fate.  When  the  firing  commenced  he 
recovered  consciousness  and  sat  up.  While  in  this  position 
a  ball  passed  through  his  shoulder,  causing  him  to  faint  away. 
After  the  conflict  ended  he  was  sent  to  the  hospital,  where 
Arthur  recognized  him  and  attended  to  his  wants.  His 
wound  was  not  dangerous,  but  it  confined  him  for  some 
weeks. 

According  to  the  statement  of  No.  40,  an  enemy  of  his 
had  thrown  him  into  prison  on  a  charge  of  forgery  and 
when  his  term  expired  convicted  him   on  another  charge. 


254 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


Being  sent  to  Millbank  on  the  last  occasion,  he  determined 
to  stay  there,  which  the  authorities  of  the  jail  consented  to 
his  doing  until  the  convict  ship  sailed  for  Australia,  where 
they  promised  to  send  him  on  the  statement  from  him  that 
his  persecutor  would  pursue  him  till  he  died.  He  had  with 
him  a  discharge  from  the  prison,  duly  attested  by  its  gov- 
ernor, and  a  permit  to  go  on  board  the  Kangaroo,  provided 
that  he  would  fare  as  the  convicts  did.  He  said  he  was 
only  too  glad  to  avail  himself  of  the  opportunity  to  reach 
Australia. 

As  soon  as  his  wounds  were  healed  No.  40  received  per- 
mission to  go  ashore,  which  he  lost  no  time  in  doing.  The 
old  man  was  a  remarkable  looking  person,  and  might  pass 
for  sixty  or  for  eighty  years  of  age.  Since  he  had  been  dis- 
charged from  Millbank  he  had  allowed  his  hair  and  beard 
to  grow,  and  the  latter  hung  in  large  white  flakes  down  on 
his  breast,  while  his  hair  hung  below  his  shoulders.  He 
was  attenuated  to  the  last  degree  ;  his  hands  were  like 
claws,  and  his  keen  black  eyes,  sunken  deep  into  their  sock- 
ets, looked  like  balls  of  fire.  He  was  very  loquacious,  and 
laid  great  stress  upon  a  mission  he  had  to  perform  on  earth 
before  he  died. 

No.  40  proposed  to  Arthur  to  accompany  him  on  shore  ; 
the  captain  gave  them  a  boat,  and  they  started  up  the  river 
for  Melbourne.  Who  can  describe  the  feelings  of  the  two 
men  as  they  landed  on  ten-a  fii-ma  once  more,  and  found 
themselves  amid  the  beautiful  scenes  of  nature,  the  ground 
covered  with  flowers  and  the  air  redolent  with  perfumes .? 
Those  who  saw  them  were  struck  with  their  appearance — 
this  stalwart  young  man  with  white  hair,  fine  form,  and 
handsome  face,  supporting  this  peculiar-looking  old  man. 
Every  one  wondered  who  and  what  they  could  be,  but  all 
treated  them  with  kindness,  and  directed  them  from  place 
to  place  until  they  reached  the  Fitzroy  Gardens,  and  here 
they  sat  down  lost  in  admiration  at  the  beautiful  grounds 
where  almost  every  flower  known  to  man  grows  in  profu- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  255 

fusion.  They  could  hardly  believe  they  were  free  once 
more  to  enjoy  the  loveliness  of  nature  and  wander  wherever 
they  pleased.  They  were  both  so  entertained  that  they  ex- 
changed no  conversation,  and  the  day  would  have  been  thus 
spent  had  not  Arthur  hurried  the  old  man  on,  for  he  was 
anxious,  before  the  sun  went  down,  to  ascertain  regarding 
the  means  of  communicating  with  his  friends  at  home.  The 
old  man  did  not  object  to  move  on,  muttering  something 
about  a  duty  he  was  anxious  to  perform  as  soon  as  possible. 

They  had  wandered  through  several  streets,  the  old  man 
scanning  the  signs  as  he  went  along.  At  last  they  came  to 
Poulet  Street,  and  No.  40  said  to  Arthur :  "  I  know  this 
street,  and  I  may  find  a  friend  here." 

"Indeed,"  said  Arthur,  ''I  did  not  know  you  had  ever 
been  out  of  England." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  sighing,  "here  is  where  my  first  troubles 
overtook  me."  He  stopped  and,  looking  at  a  sign  over  a 
door,  began  to  ponder  over  the  name  on  it.  "  I  am  getting 
old  and  forgetful,"  he  continued;  "my  memory  does  not 
serve  me  as  well  as  it  did  twenty  years  ago,  but  I  am  sure 
that  is  the  name  I  am  looking  for — '  Eustis  Ferris.'  That  is 
the  man  I  helped  to  send  to  Australia,  and  the  name  she 
told  me  to  find  when  I  got  here,  and  to  tell  him  how  they 
were  parted  and  of  the  forged  letters  and  how  she  was 
forced  to  marry.  I  remember  it  all  now,  and  thank  God 
for  bringing  me  to  this  place." 

Arthur  thought  the  old  man  was  losing  his  mind  in  his 
joy  at  being  free,  and,  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  said  : 
"  Old  man,  what  ails  you  ?  " 

"  Do  you  see  the  name  on  yon  sign  ?  "  said  the  old  man. 
"  Well,  my  mission  will  soon  be  ended,  and  I  will  carry  peace 
to  a  stricken  soul.  Providence  has  directed  this.  Come 
in  and  see  a  man  who  has  lived  on  earth  with  a  breaking 
heart.  I  started  out  over  twenty  years  ago  to  deliver  her 
message,  and  I  hope  I  have  found  him  at  last.  Come  in 
with  me." 


256  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

They  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  a  tow- 
headed  boy  of  about  fourteen  years  of  age.  ''  Is  Mr.  Eustis 
Ferris  in  'i  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,  he  be,"  said  the  boy.     ''  What  yer  want .?  " 

"  Business,"  said  the  old  man,  '' and  you  had  better 
mend  your  manners." 

*'  Well,  walk  in,  then.  The  master  is  in  one  of  his 
musin'  fits,  and  I  don't  know  as  he'll  be  glad  to  talk 
to  ye." 

The  entry  walls  were  covered  with  signs.  "  Agent  for 
claims,"  "  Information  furnished  in  relation  to  persons  in 
Europe,"  "  Bills  of  exchange  on  foreign  countries,"  "  Gold 
bought,"  "'  Agent  for  P.  &  O.  S.  S.  Company,"  and  outside 
the  door,  in  gilded  letters,  "  Eustis  Ferris,  Counselor  at 
Law." 

The  two  men  were  shown  into  the  room  where  the  lawyer 
was  seated.  What  was  he  thinking  of  ?  Had  time  effaced 
the  recollection  of  his  early  love,  and  had  the  years  he 
had  been  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  driven  all  other 
passions  but  the  love  of  gold  from  his  breast .''  He  was  evi- 
dently "well to  do,"  for  his  office  was  handsomely  furnished, 
and  two  clerks  behind  a  long  counter  were  plodding  over 
bulky  ledgers  which  seemed  to  give  them  continual  occupa- 
tion. Back  of  the  office  was  a  parlor,  the  walls  adorned  with 
handsome  pictures  and  the  polished  floors  covered  with  rich 
Oriental  rugs.  In  fact  there  was  an  air  of  opulence  about 
the  whole  establishment. 

The  lawyer  raised  his  head  as  the  visitors  entered,  and 
seemed  surprised  at  their  appearance.  It  looked  to  him 
like  a  picture  of  May  and  December.  He  was  particularly 
struck  with  the  younger  man's  face  and  with  the  remarkable 
white  hair  which  waved  about  his  head.  He  was  about  to 
speak  when  suddenly  the  blood  seemed  to  recede  from  his 
heart,  for  there  before  him  he  beheld  a  likeness  of  that  face 
he  had  loved  so  much  in  youth,  and  which  never  by  night 
or  day  had  been  absent  from  his  thoughts. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  257 

There  are  dreams  of  the  past,  bright  visions  of  joy, 
Which,  let  Fate  do  her  worst,  she  can  not  destroy. 
They  will  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  smile  which  joy  used  to  wear. 

Eustis  Ferris  rubbed  his  eyes  to  see  if  he  were  awake  or 
dreaming,  but  when  he  looked  there  were  the  same  loving 
eyes  he  remembered  in  his  youth,  the  beautiful  mouth 
which  he  thought  could  not  be  equaled.  It  was  the  face  of 
Julia  Lester,  only  in  a  masculine  frame. 

Since  the  reader  last  parted  with  Eustis  Ferris,  he  had  un- 
dergone sorrows  enough  to  break  any  man's  heart,  or  else 
cause  him  to  plunge  into  dissipation  to  drown  thoughts  too 
oppressive  to  bear.  But  he  was  a  man  of  strength,  physically 
and  mentally,  and  instead  of  repining  over  his  fate,  he  had 
given  himself  up  to  work  of  the  hardest  kind.  His  only 
recreation  consisted  in  long  walks  in  the  country  where, 
amid  nature's  fairest  scenes,  he  could  revive  the  memories 
of  his  early  love  and  look  forward  to  the  time  when  he 
could  meet  her  in  another  and  a  better  world.  He  had  greatly 
changed  from  the  handsome,  smooth-faced  youth  who  walked 
with  Julia  along  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  but  he  was  still  a 
fine-looking  man  of  forty-five,  although  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  he  had  lived  nearly  a  century.  His  mustache  and 
whiskers  were  iron  gray  and  his  thick  hair  was  the  same  color. 
His  eye  was  bright  as  ever,  but  his  forehead  showed  lines 
of  deep  thought  which  corrugated  the  white  and  polished 
skin.  He  was  the  young  man  we  knew  at  Lyneham  but 
improved  by  age,  with  a  pleasant  melancholy  about  him 
which  attracted  every  body. 

After  plodding  for  two  years  in  the  bank  in  which  he  had 
obtained  a  situation  after  his  arrival  in  Melbourne,  Ferris's 
health  failed,  owing  to  the  monotonous  life,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  seek  some  other  vocation.  He  devoted  himself  to 
the  study  of  the  law,  and  put  up  his  sign  on  Poulet  Street, 
where  we  have  found  him,  not  only  acting  in  the  character 
of  counselor,  but  as  agent  for  several  organizations,  through 

ir 


258  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

which  he  made  a  great  deal  of  money.  He  had  grown  in 
popularity  in  the  city,  and  was  one  of  the  best  known  men 
in  Melbourne. 

Eustis  now  asked  Arthur  Merton  in  the  kindest  manner 
what  he  could  do  for  him. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  Arthur,  "  you  can  do  nothing 
for  me  at  present.  I  was  brought  here  by  this  old  man,  who 
seems  to  have  some  business  with  you." 

The  lawyer  was  struck  with  the  tones  of  Arthur's  voice, 
and  tears  came  to  his  eyes.  Taking  Arthur's  hand,  he  said  : 
"  You  remind  me  very  much  of  a  dearly  loved  friend ;  you 
must  excuse  my  giving  way  to  my  feelings,  but  I  never  saw 
such  a  likeness.  And  now,  sir,"  he  said,  turning  to  No.  40, 
"what  can  I  do  for  you  ? " 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  "  but  to  listen  to  me 
and  believe  me.  I  started  to  see  you  over  twenty  years  ago, 
but  owing  to  the  arts  of  the  greatest  villain  on  earth,  have  I 
been  sent  from  prison  to  prison  until  I  obtained  leave  from 
the  governor  of  Millbank  to  come  out  in  the  convict  ship 
to  Melbourne  so  I  could  get  to  you,  and  here,  after  these 
long,  long  years,  I  have  met  you  at  last.  But  what  I  have  to 
say  must  be  told  you  in  private,  for  my  communication 
is  of  a  sacred  nature,  and  I  would  not  like  to  lose  the  good 
opinion  of  my  companion  by  letting  him  know  the  part  I 
played  in  a  scheme  that  drove  you  from  your  country  and 
parted  you  from  the  woman  you  loved,  who,  if  she  still  lives, 
loves  you  to-day  with  the  same  ardor  as  when  you  once 
walked  the  banks  of  the  Avon  together." 

"  In  the  name  of  all  that  is  sacred,"  said  Ferris,  grasping 
the  old  man  by  the  shoulder,  "  who  are  you,  and  whence 
do  you  come  to  reopen  my  wounds  ?  What  harm  did  I  ever 
do  you  that  you  played  me  such  a  trick  ?  Speak,  or  I  will 
dash  out  your  brains  !  " 

"  I  will,"  said  No.  40,  gasping  for  breath,  "  but  take  your 
hands  off.  I  am  not  as  young  as  I  once  was,  and  can 
not  stand  such  rough   treatment.     I  2im  parttceps  criminis,  it 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  259 

is  true,  but  it  was  against  my  will,  and  I  now  come  by  the 
direction  of  Julia  Lester  to  tell  you  the  story  of  her  life." 

At  this  name  Arthur  started.  "  '  Julia  Lester ! '"  he  said. 
"  Old  man,  do  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about  ?  Julia 
Lester  is  the  maiden  name  of  my  dear  mother.  What  do  you 
know  of  her,  and  how  could  you  ever  be  connected  with 
her  name  in  any  way  ?  " 

Now  the  lawyer's  excitement  increased.  He  looked 
into  Arthur's  eyes.  ''  It  is  as  I  suspected,"  he  exclaimed, 
"you  are  the  son  of  JuUa  Lester.  Is  not  your  name  Mer- 
ton  ? "  He  waited  with  feverish  anxiety  for  the  young 
man's  answer. 

"Yes,"  said  Arthur,  "that  is  my  name,  Arthur  Merton, 
but  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  " 

"  It  means,"  said  Ferris,  "that  this  is  the  happiest  day 
I  have  known  for  nearly  twenty-five  years  ;  that  the  mys- 
tery of  my  life  will  all  be  explained,  and  that,  perhaps,  out 
of  this  old  man's  confession  will  come  retribution,  and  that 
the  offender  will  suffer  well-deserved  punishment.  You  are 
the  son  of  the  woman  I  loved  in  my  youth,  and  who  was 
parted  from  mie  by  some  devilish  means,  of  which  I  am 
about  to  be  informed.  I  do  not  know  what  you  are  doing 
in  Australia,  but  I  am  sure  that  one  who  was  born  of  her, 
has  her  features,  and  even  the  tones  of  her  voice,  can  not 
be  otherwise  than  pure  and  honorable,  though  temporarily 
connected  with  this  old  man,  who  admits  that  he  has  been 
guilty  of  crime." 

"  I  am  just  out  of  prison  myself,"  said  Arthur,  frankly. 
"  I  served  two  years  in  Millbank,  and  was  sent  here  in  a 
convict  ship,  but  I  am  as  innocent  as  a  child  of  the  crime 
of  which  I  was  convicted.  I  am  free  now,  and  my  inno- 
cence has  been  proved,  but  judge  not  too  harshly  of  this 
old  man.  I  have  been  such  a  victim  myself  to  the  vindic- 
tiveness  of  others,  that  after  this  I  shall  believe  nothing 
against  any  man  without  the  fullest  proofs.  I  will  tell  you 
my  story  when  an  opportunity  occurs,  and  you  can  see  how 


26o  '       ARTHUR  MERTON. 

wrong  it  is  to  misjudge  any  one.  Since  I  have  known  this 
old  man  I  have  seen  nothing  in  him  that  is  not  good. 
Listen  to  him  patiently  ;  he  is  very  old,  and  has  undergone 
suffering  enough  to  expiate  even  a  great  crime,  if  he  has  ever 
committed  one." 

"Weil,  then,"  said  Ferris,  "  let  him  begin.  I  am  anxious 
to  know  the  mystery  of  the  last  twenty-five  years.  My 
heart  tells  me  that  I  am  about  to  hear  something  that  will 
make  me  wish  I  had  never  lived.  Go  on  with  your  story, 
and  you,  my  young  friend,  listen  to  it."  They  all  sat  down, 
and  Eustis  Ferris  awaited  the  old  man's  revelations. 

"  You  don't  remember  me,"  said  No.  40.  "  I  am  the  clerk 
who  came  into  John  Merton's  mills  just  before  you  were  ac- 
cused of  the  forgery  which  sent  you  out  of  the  country.  I 
am  Kirby  Brush,  the  man  who  committed  that  forgery.  Do 
you  remember  me  now  ? " 

Eustis  Ferris  sprang  from  his  chair,  and  rushed  toward 
the  old  man,  as  if  to  lay  violent  hands  on  him.  "  Hell 
hound !  "  he  exclaimed  in  his  fury,  "  what  is  there  to  pre- 
vent me  from  killing  you  on  the  spot?  Speak  the  truth,  or 
I  will  strangle  you." 

Though  the  lawyer  was  almost  at  his  throat,  the  old  man 
sat  unmoved,  and  showed  not  a  particle  of  fear.  He  re- 
plied, calmly  :  "  You  will  not  kill  me,  because  I  am  a  weak 
old  man,  and  you  are  a  young  one.  I  would  be  a  reed  in 
your  hands,  and,  though  I  have  sinned  greatly  against  you, 
I  could  not  help  myself,  T  was  the  tool  of  John  Merton, 
the  owner  of  Lyneham  Mills." 

"  My  father  !  "  exclaimed  Arthur,  excitedly.  "  Old  man, 
beware  what  you  say.  Do  not  let  me  change  the  good  opin- 
ion I  have  had  of  you  ;  for,  though  he  has  never  treated  me 
with  affection,  and  has  deserted  me  in  my  hour  of  need,  I 
can  not  hear  my  father's  name  aspersed  without  resenting 
it." 

"And  you  are  John  Merton's  son  !  "  said  the  old  man, 
approaching  and  peering  into  his    eyes.     "Well,  well,   the 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  26 1 

wolf  has  begotten  a  lamb,  for  you  have  not  a  trace  of  John 
Merton  in  your  composition.  I  saw  you  once  when  you 
were  a  baby,  and  your  beautiful  mother  was  at  your  side, 
ready  to  protect  you  as  I  approached  her.  It  was  on  that 
day  she  commissioned  me  to  go  to  Australia,  to  Mr.  Ferris, 
and  tell  him  the  history  of  her  life.  The  next  day,  when  I 
was  on  board  the  P.  &  O.  steamer,  within  two  hours  of  sail- 
ing, I  was  seized  by  a  policeman  and  taken  to  prison. 
John  Merton  appeared  against  me,  furnished  proofs  that 
convicted  me  of  forgery,  and,  when  I  had  served  my  time, 
repeated  his  work,  and  again  I  was  thrown  into  prison  for 
crimes  I  never  committed.  His  money  kept  me  in  jail  for 
over  twenty  years,  until  I  chose  it  as  a  place  of  rest  and 
refuge.  Sir,  I  can't  love  your  father,  after  all  he  has  done 
to  me,  and  it  was  your  sweet  mother  who  sent  me  in  quest 
of  Eustis  Ferris,  that  he  might  know  her  wrongs.  She  ab- 
horred your  father  when  she  learned  his  true  character. 
Condemn  me,  but  let  me  tell  my  tale.  Then  you  can  do 
with  me  as  you  will,  for  I  am  weary  of  life." 

Arthur  sat  quietly  down.  He  remembered  all  the  harsh 
treatment  his  mother  had  experienced  from  his  father  since 
he  had  been  able  to  comprehend  anything,  and  how  often 
he  had  crept  to  her  side  at  night,  and  kissed  away  her  tears. 

"  Now,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  both  of  you  seem  to 
have  recovered  from  your  excitement,  pray  let  me  tell  you 
my  story.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  palliate  my  offenses.  I 
have  done  wicked  things,  because  I  had  not  the  moral  cour- 
age to  oppose  the  will  of  the  greatest  scoundrel  in  the  world, 
who,  though  I  served  him  well  and  enabled  him  to  escape 
justice  for  years,  during  which  time  he  accumulated  great 
wealth,  when  he  no  longer  wanted  me  and  I  was  in  his  way, 
he  kept  me  in  prison  until  I  became  the  wreck  you  see  be- 
fore you.  I  do  not  care  what  happens  to  me  after  I  have 
finished  my  story ;  my  mission  will  be  accomplished,  and 
my  mind  once  more  at  rest.  In  prison  I  have  had  ample 
time  to  repent  of  my  sins,  and  I  believe  my  earthly  punish- 


262  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

ment  has  been  so  heavy  that  God  will  deal  leniently  with 
me  when  my  soul  escapes  from  this  poor  relic  of  humanity 
and  goes  to  a  world  where  there  will  be  no  apprehension  of 
John  Merton's  persecutions." 

As  the  old  man's  tale  is  a  long  one,  we  will  reserve  it  for 
another  chapter. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

"I  was  born  in  Wiltshire  and  received  a  good  education. 
At  school  I  was  noted  for  excellent  penmanship.  I  could 
imitate  any  handwriting  so  that  it  was  difficult,  if  not  impos- 
sible, to  detect  the  counterfeit,  an  accomplishment  which  has 
given  me  so  much  trouble  that  it  would  have  been  better 
if  I  had  never  learned  to  write  at  all. 

*'  I  was  eighteen  years  old  when  gold  was  discovered  in 
Australia,  and  with  the  hope  of  making  a  fortune  I  took 
passage  for  Melbourne  in  company  with  three  hundred  or 
more  gold-hunters.  I  then  went  under  the  name  of  John 
Merton,  but,  for  reasons  which  I  will  explain,  I  afterward 
changed  it. 

"Young  and  inexperienced,  I  was  disposed  to  believe 
every  one  who  made  professions  of  friendship.  One  man  in 
particular  among  my  fellow-passengers  paid  me  great  atten- 
tion. He  was  much  older  than  I,  and  seemed  to  have  con- 
siderable means  at  his  disposal.  When  we  stopped  at  differ- 
ent ports  on  the  passage  out  he  would  take  me  on  shore  and 
do  everything  he  could  for  my  pleasure.  He  was  so  kind  to 
me  that  I  at  last  became  wholly  under  his  influence.  His 
name  was  Kirby  Brush." 

*'Why,"  exclaimed  Eustis  Ferris,  "I  thought  that  was 
your  name." 

"  Wait  until  I  finish  my  story,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  After  a  passage  of  one  hundred  and  ten  days  from 
England  we  arrived  in  Melbourne,  and  Kirby  Brush  engaged 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  263 

two  rooms  in  the  town  for  our  occupancy.  He  had  letters 
of  introduction,  and  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  so  procured 
a  situation  as  porter  in  the  Bank  of  ^Melbourne. 

"Although  Brush  well  knew  my  qualifications,  he  seemed 
in  no  hurry  to  get  me  a  place.  He  particularly  admired  my 
penmanship,  which  he  often  said  would  be  a  fortune  to  me. 

"  One  day,  about  a  month  after  our  arrival  in  Melbourne, 
Brush  came  into  my  room.  '  John,'  he  said,  '  the  time  has 
come  for  you  to  begin  work.  I  have  received  a  letter  from 
the  proprietor  of  a  large  sheep  farm,  twenty  miles  from  here. 
I  think  you  will  be  able  to  get  a  place  there,  but  you  will 
first  have  to  do  a  little  job  for  me.  I  want  you  to  write  a 
mau's  name  on  a  check.  He  owes  me  money,  and  I  want  to 
get  it.» 

"'Why,  that  would  be  forgery,'  said  I,  'wouldn't  it?' 

"  '  Do  you  think  I  would  commit  forgery .''  '  said  Brush, 
his  jaws  snapping  together  like  a  steel  trap." 

Well  did  Eustis  Ferris  remember  that  snap  of  the  jaws. 

"  I  was  terrified  at  his  looks,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"  for  I  was  morally  weak,  and  feared  to  lose  my  benefactor, 
as  I  supposed  Brush  to  be.  I  stammered  out  an  apology, 
saying  :  '  You  know  better  than  I  do.  I  will  do  what  you 
wish.' 

"  'You  silly  fellow  I  '  said  Brush,  '  it's  only  borrowing  a 
man's  name  for  a  day  or  two ;  it's  often  done  in  business 
houses  ;  the  man  will  never  be  any  wiser,  for  I'll  redeem 
the  check  before  he  knows  anything  about  it.  It's  purely  a 
business  transaction.  I  have  often  done  the  same  thing, 
but  now  I  can't  copy  a  man's  signature  as  well  as  I  could 
five  years  ago.  Now,  John,  my  boy,  let  your  hand  be  steady 
when  you  undertake  this  job,  for,  remember,  all  the  respon- 
sibility falls  on  me.' 

"An  hour  later  I  sat  down  and  filled  out  the  check  for 
one  hundred  pounds  as  Brush  directed. 

"  His  eyes  sparkled  with  delight  when  he  saw  how  well  I 
had  imitated  the  signature,  but  my  heart  misgave  me,  for  I 


264  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

could  not  help  thinking  I  had  taken  the  first  step  in  the 
downward  path. 

*'  Next  morning  Brush  came  to  me,  and  said,  '  John,  I 
want  you  to  take  that  check  to  bank.  I  must  disguise  you 
a  little  so  that  you  will  not  be  known.' 

''  After  being  so  disguised  that  my  mother  would  not  have 
recognized  me,  I  presented  the  check  at  the  bank,  and  when 
asked  if  my  name  was  John  Merton,  to  whose  order  the 
check  was  drawn,  I  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  referred 
to  Kirby  Brush,  who  said  that  he  knew  me  and  that  I  was 
John  Merton,  on  which  the  money  was  paid,  much  to  my 
relief,  for,  notwithstanding  what  Brush  had  said,  I  felt  sure 
that  the  transaction  was  an  illegitimate  one  and  would  sub- 
ject me  to  punishment  if  detected. 

"  A  week  later  the  cashier  of  the  bank  called  Brush 
into  his  room,  and  said  :  '  Here's  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish  ; 
the  bank  has  paid  a  forged  check,  and  you  are  respon- 
sible.' 

" '  Sir,*  said  Brush,  '  if  that  check  of  Merton's  is  a  for- 
gery I'll  pay  the  money.  I  thought  he  was  honest  if  anybody 
is.  He  sailed  for  England  two  days  ago,  and  came  to  see  me 
just  before  he  started,  and  said  a  friend  had  advanced  him 
money  to  go  home.  Right  or  wrong,  I'll  pay  the  amount  ; 
and  all  I  ask  is  to  retain  the  check,  and  I  think  I  can  recover 
the  money.*  Brush  accordingly  paid  the  money  I  had  drawn 
back  to  the  bank,  the  officers  of  which  were  only  too  glad  to 
get  it  and  did  not  bother  Brush  with  many  questions.  The 
latter  received  the  check  with  the  bank  indorsement  pro- 
nouncing it  a  forgery,  and  rose  at  once  into  great  favor 
with  the  authorities,  who  considered  him  a  most  upright  and 
conscientious  person. 

"  When  Brush  came  home  that  evening,  he  said  to  me  : 
*Well,  you've  given  me  a  lot  of  trouble,  and  I  wouldn't  give 
twopence  for  your  chances  if  you  are  apprehended,  for  this 
is  one  of  the  most  barefaced  forgeries  ever  committed  in 
Melbourne.* 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  265 

"  I  turned  pale  and  almost  fainted.  '  Why,'  I  said,  '  you 
told  me  to  do  it  and  said  there  was  no  harm.' 

"  '  And  who  do  you  suppose  will  believe  such  a  tale  as 
that?'  said  Brush.  '  I  know  you  to  be  an  unmitigated  rascal, 
and  if  you  fail  to  do  my  bidding  I  will  have  you  breaking 
stone  for  the  next  ten  years.' 

"  I  was  overcome  with  terror  and  wept  like  a  child. 

"  From  that  hour  I  became  the  slave  of  Kirby  Brush  ;  if 
I  showed  any  hesitation  in  complying  with  his  demands  he 
would  shake  the  forged  check  in  my  face  and  threaten  to 
have  me  arrested. 

"  Brush  amassed  money  in  various  ways,  and  finally  estab- 
lished a  stage  between  Ballarat  and  Melbourne  and  selected 
me  to  act  as  guard  for  the  mails  which  he  obtained  the 
contract  for  transporting.  It  may  seem  strange  that  he 
should  have  chosen  me  for  such  an  office,  but  Brush  feared 
neither  man  nor  devil,  and  was  a  dead  shot.  He  was  a  very 
powerful  and  a  very  active  man  and  merely  wanted  to  use  me. 

"Brush  established  a  character  for  honesty  with  the 
miners  aided  by  letters  he  received  from  the  •  Melbourne 
Bank,  and  on  his  return  trips  from  Ballarat  the  miners  in- 
trusted to  him  their  bags  of  gold  weighed  in  common  scales 
and  the  gold-dust  mixed  with  iron  pyrites  and  other  foreign 
substances. 

"When  we  stopped  for  the  night  on  the  road  Brush 
would  carry  the  mails  and  bags  of  gold  to  his  room  and 
remove  a  portion  of  the  gold-dust  and  seal  the  bags  up 
again. 

'"''  This  game  he  carried  on  for  two  years,  during  which 
time  he  transported  several  hundred  thousand  pounds'  worth 
of  gold,  and  with  what  he  embezzled,  together  with  his  com- 
missions. Brush  managed  to  pocket  some  twenty  thousand 
pounds  sterling,  and  yet  escape  any  general  suspicion. 

"On  one  occasion,  a  miner  insinuated  that  Brush  had 
been  'milking  the  bags,'  whereupon  the  latter  shot  him  dead 
on  the  spot.     As  there  was  no  law,  excepting  miners'  law  in 


266  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

the  *  diggings,'  the  transaction  passed  without  question,  and 
after  that  no  one  objected  to  Kirby  Brush's  returns. 

"  During  this  period,  Brush  was  married  to  a  handsome 
girl  of  seventeen,  named  Sylvia  Brooks,  on  which  occasion 
I  personated  the  parson.  The  simple  parents  of  the  girl 
lived  about  ten  miles  from  Melbourne,  on  a  sheep-farm. 

**  After  this  piece  of  villainy,  Brush  gave  up  his  stage- 
coach, and,  strange  to  say,  took  his  old  position  as  porter 
of  the  Melbourne  Bank.  Again  he  set  me  to  work  to  do 
his  rascally  bidding.  I  had  gained  no  courage  even  in  the 
rough  life  I  led,  and  submitted  like  a  child.  At  Brush's 
order  I  hired  the  third  house  from  the  bank,  in  the  name  of 
Merton  &  Co.,  and  stocked  it  with  trunks  and  harness,  for 
which  Brush  furnished  the  money.  The  house  was  about 
twenty  feet  front,  and  extended  three  rooms  deep.  I  could 
not  conceive  his  object,  but  was  soon  made  aware  of  his  in- 
tentions. That  night  he  introduced  into  the  house  two 
wheelbarrows  and  a  number  of  spades,  pick-axes,  etc.  The 
cellar  under  the  Melbourne  Bank  had  been  fitted  as  a  vault 
for  the  storage  of  boxes  containing  gold-dust,  preparatory  to 
shipping  them  to  England.  It  was  ceiled  with  heavy  iron 
plating,  and  floored  with  stone  slabs,  laid  in  cement.  In  the 
cellar  was  a  fireplace,  with  strong  iron  bars  running  across 
the  chimney.  Fire  was  sometimes  built  here  to  smelt  gold. 
Everything  looked  so  strong  and  massive  it  seemed  as  if 
burglars  could  have  no  chance  of  entering.  In  the  bank  an 
armed  watchman  kept  guard  day  and  night  over  the  massive 
trap-door  which  formed  the  entrance  to  the  cellar.  The  au- 
thorities of  the  bank,  who  kept  the  keys  to  the  vault,  con- 
sidered it  so  safe  that  they  gave  little  heed  to  the  matter, 
but  Kirby  Brush  was  of  another  opinion,  for,  after  studying 
the  matter  carefully,  he  determined  to  rob  the  vault. 

"  By  his  conduct  in  redeeming  the  forged  check.  Brush 
had  established  a  reputation  at  the  bank  for  honesty,  at  the 
same  time  that  he  made  me  his  slave,  so  that  when  he  again 
entered  the  service  of  the  bank  the  authorities  were  ready 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  267 

to  intrust  him  with  anything,  and  relied  on  him  to  examine 
all  parts  of  the  building  before  locking  up  for  the  night. 

*'  The  third  night  after  renting  the  building  before  men- 
tioned, Brush  commenced  operations.  He  ordered  me  to 
go  with  him  to  the  cellar,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and,  seizing 
a  spade,  began  to  dig.  It  was  near  midnight  when  we  set 
to  work,  and  Brush  threw  out  the  dirt  Hke  a  steam-engine, 
while  I  wheeled  it  away  and  piled  it  up  in  the  farther  end 
of  the  cellar. 

"  In  six  nights  he  had  tunneled  under  the  foundations 
of  the  adjoining  house,  and  was  approaching  the  bank, 
propj-^hig  the  earth  overhead  with  timbers,  to  prevent  it 
from  falling  in.  Brush  directed  his  course  toward  the  fire- 
place in  the  bank  cellar,  and  struck  it  with  the  skill  of  an 
engineer.  At  about  four  o'clock  each  morning,  he  made  me 
accompany  him  home  and  sleep  in  the  room  with  him.  It 
was  his  custom  to  lock  the  door  and  put  a  loaded  revolver 
under  his  pillow,  saying,  '  This  revolver  is  for  you  in  case 
you  open  your  mouth  about  what  we  are  doing.' 

"  On  the  sixth  night,  Brush  brought  four  light  jack-screws 
into  the  building,  cleared  away  the  dirt  under  the  hearth- 
stone, and  fixed  the  jack-screws  so  that  by  working  them 
the  hearthstone  was  raised  high  enough  for  him  to  crawl 
into  the  bank-vault.  In  a  few  moments  we  vvere  both  in 
the  cellar,  looking  around  with  our  lanterns,  and  saw  some 
two  hundred  boxes  of  gold,  awaiting  shipment.  I  shivered 
with  fright,  but  Brush  was  perfectly  cool.  With  a  screw- 
driver, he  opened  the  boxes  one  after  another  in  perfect 
quiet,  and  with  a  celerity  that  astonished  me.  From  each 
box  he  opened  Brush  took  about  five  ounces  of  gold-dust, 
and  replaced  it  with  an  equal  weight  of  iron  pyrites,  which 
he  had  previously  prepared. 

"That  night  he  opened  some  thirty  boxes,  while  I  said 
nothing. 

"  The  watchman  overhead  walked  constantly  up  and 
down    with    heavy    tread  ;  sometimes  we   could   hear   him 


268  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

stumble,  at  which  Brush  would  smile,  for  he  knew  the 
walker  had  had  his  beer  drugged,  and  was  trying  to  keep 
awake.  The  rats  chased  each  other  around  the  vault,  and 
watched  us  with  inquiring  eyes.  Sleep  finally  overtook  the 
watchman,  and  his  walking  ceased  for  the  night. 

*'  Our  work  for  the  night  being  over  and  all  marks  of 
our  presence  carefully  effaced,  we  descended  to  our  tunnel, 
and  lowered  the  hearthstone  again  into  place.  That  night's 
work  produced  for  Brush  ^500  worth  of  gold,  and  he  kept 
up  the  business  for  nearly  a  year,  making  me  the  medium 
through  whom  the  gold  was  sold  back  to  the  bank.  At  the 
end  of  the  year  Brush  had  accumulated  about  ^100,000, 
giving  me  a  small  portion  of  the  booty,  and  continually  re- 
minding me  that  my  life  was  in  danger,  if  I  attempted  to 
play  him  false. 

"  Brush  knew  that  ultimately  the  robbery  would  be  de- 
tected and  reported  to  the  Melbourne  Bank,  so  he  deter- 
mined to  decamp  before  the  discovery  took  place  ;  he  ac- 
cordingly took  passage  for  himself  and  me  for  England, 
never  mentioning  to  his  wife  that  he  was  going. 

"Before  we  sailed  he  said  to  me:  *  Merton,  we  must 
change  names.  After  this  you  will  be  Kirby  Brush  and  I 
will  be  John  Merton.  I  wish  this  for  my  own  purposes ; 
if  you  get  in  my  way  you  know  how  easily  I  can  dispose  of 
you  ;  a  slight  pressure  of  my  finger  on  the  trigger  of  my  re- 
volver would  send  you  to  eternity,  while  I  would  weep  bit- 
ter tears  over  the  accident  which  had  robbed  me  of  the  dear 
young  friend  and  companion  in  exile.  But  I  do  not  want 
to  kill  you,  for  you  are  a  mine  of  wealth  to  me.  Once  in 
England  I  will  make  your  fortune.' 

"  He  then  made  me  take  a  solemn  oath  to  be  known  in 
future  as  Kirby  Brush,  and  to  assist  him  in  maintaining  the 
name  of  John  Merton  as  long  as  he  chose  to  bear  it. 

"  I  took  the  oath  and  signed  my  name  to  the  paper,  for 
I  dared  not  do  otherwise,  and  ever  since  I  have  been  known 
as  Kirby  Brush. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  269 

"  John  Merton,  as  I  will  now  call  him,  put  the  paper  in 
his  pocket,  and  said  :  *  I  am  now  going  on  board  the  steam- 
er with  our  luggage,  and  as  I  don't  want  to  be  seen  too  much 
with  you,  will  lock  you  up  in  this  room  until  I  come  back. 

" '  My  God  ! '  I  exclaimed  after  Merton  had  departed, 
'  v.hat  a  life  I  am  leading  !  Better  die  at  once  than  continue 
in  this  way.  I  will  escape  and  give  myself  up  ;  better  spend 
my  life  in  prison  than  follow  this  wretch  in  his  career  of 
villainy.* 

"  I  looked  in  vain  for  something  by  which  I  could  force 
the  door.  I  could  not  jump  from  the  window  without  the 
certainty  of  being  killed.  At  length  I  found  a  rope  hidden 
away  in  a  closet,  and  sufficiently  strong  to  bear  my  weight. 
I  secured  one  end  of  the  rope  and  commenced  my  descent, 
but  just  before  reaching  the  ground  a  pistol-shot  rang  in  my 
ear,  the  end  of  my  thumb  was  shot  off,  the  rope  was  cut  in 
two,  and  I  fell  stunned  and  bleeding  to  the  ground. 

"  When  I  came  to  myself  John  Merton  stood  over  me. 
*  Fool,'  he  exclaimed,  '  to  think  you  could  escape  me  !  I 
could  have  put  a  ball  through  your  head,  and  claimed  that 
I  thought  you  were  a  burglar  ;  but  I  chose  to  cut  the  rope 
so  that  you  would  get  a  tumble.  Try  that  game  again  and 
I'll  put  a  bullet  through  your  heart.  Get  up-stairs  before 
somebody  comes  along  and  asks  ugly  questions.' 

"That  was  the  last  time  I  attempted  to  escape  from 
Merton  before  taking  the  step  that  cost  me  so  many  years 
in  prison. 

"  We  reached  England  in  due  time,  and  John  Merton 
established  himself  near  Lyneham  as  a  manufacturer,  and 
there  he  is  still.  Whether  the  bank  ever  suspected  him  of 
tampering  with  their  gold-boxes  I  do  not  know,  but  it  is 
probable  they  did  not.  To  dispose  of  me  Merton  obtained 
a  certificate  that  I  was  insane,  and  immured  me  in  a  private 
asylum.  Strange  as  you  may  consider  it,  I  was  quite  happy 
when  I  found  myself  in  the  asylum,  free,  as  I  supposed, 
from  Merton.     I  behaved  so  strangely  that  my  keeper  was 


2/0 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


convinced  that  I  was  a  desperate  case.  The  four  years  I 
passed  in  the  asylum  were  the  halcyon  days  of  my  life.  I 
sought  employment  in  the  garden  and  grew  robust  and  act- 
ive, a  great  contrast  to  my  miserable  appearance  when  I 
entered  the  asylum,  and  I  thought  my  persecutor  would 
trouble  me  no  more  so  long  as  I  remained  quiet. 

"  One  day  while  I  was  working  in  the  garden  I  heard 
footsteps  behind  me,  and  looking  round  beheld  John  Mer- 
ton.  My  heart  sank  within  me,  for  I  felt  that  some  new 
evil  was  in  store  for  me.  *  Brush,'  said  my  tormentor,  'come 
with  me,  I  have  work  for  you  to  do.  Your  treatment  will 
depend  on  how  you  fulfill  my  washes  ;  if  you  attempt  to 
escape  I  will  send  you  to  prison  for  life.'  " 

Arthur  here  interrupted  the  speaker. 

"  And  this  man  of  whom  you  are  speaking  is  my 
father .?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  No.  40,  "the  destroyer  of  your  mother's 
happiness,  who  by  forgery  separated  her  from  Eustis  Ferris, 
her  betrothed,  and  drove  him  to  Australia ;  who  made  your 
mother  so  unhappy  that  she  attempted  to  escape  from  him, 
whereupon  he  threatened  to  put  her  in  a  madhouse.  Your 
father  has  no  claim  on  you  ;  your  duty  is  to  your  mother, 
who  has  brought  you  up  tenderly.  I  remember  how  your 
father  treated  her  while  I  was  at  Lyneham,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  her  tears  as  she  told  me  how  she  had  been  parted  from 
Eustis  Ferris,  for  she  never  believed  in  the  charges  brought 
against  him." 

At  these  words  Eustis  Ferris  could  not  conceal  his  agi- 
tation, while  Arthur,  who  remembered  his  father's  cruel 
treatment  of  his  mother  was  equally  a  prey  to  his  feelings. 

''In  England,"  continued  the  old  man,  "is  the  author 
of  all  your  woes,  and  you  both  owe  it  to  yourselves  and  to 
the  woman  you  love  best  on  earth,  to  go  there  at  once  and 
denounce  John  Merton  to  the  law." 

Arthur  raised  his  head  and  exclaimed  :  "  Old  man,  you 
are  right.     I  detest  the  man,  and  will  never  be  satisfied  un- 


AR  THUR  MER  TON.  2  7 1 

til  I  redress  my  mother's  wrongs.  Go  on  with  your  story  ; 
I  will  not  interrupt  you  again." 

"  John  Merton,"  continued  the  old  man,  "took  me  to 
Lyneham  and  lodged  me  in  a  room  adjoining  the  one  he 
occupied.  The  windows  were  barred  and  the  door  at  night 
locked  upon  me.  I  was  constantly  shadowed  by  detect- 
ives. To  endeavor  to  escape  would  be  madness,  and  I  sur- 
rendered to  my  fate. 

"  The  day  after  my  arrival  at  the  Merton  mills,  my  per- 
secutor sent  for  me,  and  said  :  '  I  want  you  to  do  some  writ- 
ing for  me.  I  have  In  my  employ  a  young  fellow  named 
Eustis  Ferris.  He  is  offensive  to  me,  and  I  want  to  send 
him  out  of  the  country.  Here  are  some  of  his  letters.  Make 
a  check  out  to  the  order  of  Eustis  Ferris  for  ;^ioo  and 
sign  my  name  to  it  with  Ferris's  indorsement.  Have  a  sheet 
of  paper  with  my  name  written  all  over  it  as  if  some  one  had 
been  practicing.     Do  you  understand  .^  '  he  said,  fiercely. 

"  '  I  do,'  I  said,  '  may  God  have  mercy  on  me  ! ' 

" '  I'll  have  no  mercy  on  you  unless  you  do  as  I  bid  you.' 

"  That  evening,  Mr.  Ferris,  I  saw  you  walking  on  the 
bank  of  the  river  with  your  betrothed,  and  determined  to 
reveal  the  plot  against  you,  but  I  could  not  shake  oft  my 
detective.  Even  if  I  threw  myself  into  the  river  he  would 
pull  me  out.     I  blush  to  think  what  a  coward  I  was." 

Eustis  Ferris  could  stand  it  no  longer.  ''  Good  heav- 
ens !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  can  men  be  permitted  to  exist  and 
perpetrate  such  crimes  ?  May  Merton  reap  the  reward  he 
deserves  !  I  will  devote  all  my  energies  to  bring  him  to 
justice." 

"  Oh,  my  poor  mother  !  "  exclaimed  Arthur.  "  I  know 
the  anguish  she  has  suffered.  My  mother  must  be  rescued 
from  the  power  of  that  man  if  she  is  still  living.  We  must 
go  and  rescue  her." 

*'  That  you  should  do,"  said  No.  40,  "  and  take  me  with 
you  as  evidence  against  Merton.     He  thinks  I  am  dead. 

"  When  you  were  gone,"  continued  the  old  man,  address- 


272 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


ing  Eustis,  "  Merton  kept  up  his  forgeries  through  me  which 
brought  about  his  marriage  with  JuHa  Lester.  I  committed 
to  memory  the  letters  I  wrote  and  made  copies  which  I  have 
with  me." 

The  old  man  handed  a  small  packet  to  Eustis  Ferris  who 
looked  the  papers  carefully  over  and  then  handed  them  to 
Arthur. 

Eustis  Ferris  had  held  up  manfully  until  this  time,  but 
when  he  read  the  letters  and  realized  all  that  Julia  had  suf- 
fered, he  gave  way  to  his  feelings  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

"  Little  more  remains  to  be  told,"  continued  the  old 
man.  "  Merton  became  suspicious  and  having  no  further  oc- 
casion for  my  services  determined  to  send  me  to  America. 
One  day  he  handed  me  a  check.  *  Forge  my  name  to  that,' 
Ke  said,  *  and  you  are  free.'  My  heart  leaped  for  joy.  I 
had  forged  his  name  so  often  that  a  few  times  more  or  less 
made  no  difference  to  me.  The  check  was  for  ^100  pay- 
able to  the  order  of  Kirby  Brush.  *  Now  indorse  the  check,' 
said  Merton.  I  complied  with  the  order  and  Merton  put 
the  check  in  his  pocket. 

*"  Now,' said  he,  'these  are  your  orders:  go  to  Liver- 
pool and  embark  at  once  for  America.  Let  me  know  when 
you  get  there,  and  I  will  allow  you  ;^ioo  a  year  on  which  to 
live  until  you  obtain  employment.  If  you  ever  come  to 
England  without  my  permission  I  will  send  you  to  prison 
for  forgery.'  He  then  gave  me  a  bank-note  for  ^100,  and 
instructed  me  to  inform  him  when  and  in  what  steamer  I 
sailed. 

"  That  same  afternoon,  on  my  way  to  take  the  train,  I  met 
Mrs  Merton  and  told  her  my  story  as  briefly  as  possible. 
I  can  see  now  the  look  of  despair  in  her  countenance,  the 
agony  she  felt  when  she  learned  the  truth  about  her  lover. 

"  '  Go,'  she  said,  '  to  Australia  and  tell  Eustis  how  I  was 
deceived,  how  wretched  has  been  my  life.'  I  promised  to 
do  as  she  wished  if  it  cost  me  my  life. 

"I  went  to  Southampton,  followed  by  a  detective,  and 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  273 

under  a  new  name  secured  passage  to  Australia.  Then  I 
was  arrested  under  a  charge  of  forgery.  At  my  trial  Mer- 
ton  appeared  as  accuser.  He  had  employed  some  one  to 
present  the  check,  who  not  being  known  at  the  bank  was  re- 
fused payment  and  the  check  retained  and  pronounced  a 
forgery  when  shown  to  Merton. 

"  At  the  expiration  of  my  term  of  imprisonment  I  was 
again  arrested  and  at  the  end  of  my  second  term  begged 
the  governor  of  Millbank  to  let  me  remain  in  prison  until  a 
convict  ship  should  go  to  Australia. 

"  Here  I  am,  and  I  am  willing  to  die,  for  life  has  no  longer 
any  attractions  for  me." 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  old  man,"  said  Eustis  Ferris.  "You 
have  sinned  for  want  of  moral  courage,  but  you  have  been 
true  to  the  mission  you  undertook  so  many  years  ago.  You 
have  lifted  a  weight  from  my  heart,  and  I  now  have  an 
object  in  life — the  rescue  of  the  best  of  women  from  bond- 
age to  a  villain.  You  will  both  take  up  your  quarters  with 
me.  Arthur,  what  you  have  missed  in  the  affection  of  a 
father,  I  will  endeavor  to  supply.  As  I  have  no  fondness  for 
riches  they  have  flown  in  upon  me.  We  will  try  to  make 
your  dear  mother  happy  if  she  is  still  in  existence." 

Arthur  pressed  Eustis  Ferris's  hand  ;  his  heart  was  too 
full  for  utterance. 

"  Now,"  said  Eustis,  "  we  must  get  ready  to  return  to 
England,  where  I  hope  once  more  to  look  upon  your  moth- 
er's face  and  guard  her  from  the  man  who  has  made  her  life 
so  unhappy." 


CHAPTER   XXHI. 

Elsie  Vernon  v/atched  over  her  patient  with  unremit- 
ting care.     For  the  first  three  months  there  was  but  a  faint 
glimmer  of  reason  in  Julia  Merton's  beautiful  eyes,  though 
she  seemed  to  know  Elsie,  and  gazed  after  her  as  she  moved 
18 


274  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

about  the  room,  making  Elsie  sit  by  her,  and  holding  her 
hand  until  she  fell  asleep.  Julia's  reason  gradually  returned. 
At  first,  it  was  like  the  glimmer  of  a  candle  that  has  burned 
to  its  socket,  yet  there  was  an  improvement,  which  Elsie 
noticed  with  delight,  and  in  six  months  her  patient  was  cog- 
nizant of  all  that  v/as  going  on  around  her,  and  could  ex- 
press her  wants  very  freely.  She  seemed,  however,  to  have 
no  recollection  of  past  events,  beyond  the  fact  that  Arthur 
had  left  her  for  a  time,  and  she  was  daily  expecting  his  re- 
turn, and  anticipating  the  happiness  of  seeing  him  united 
to  Elsie.  During  the  six  months  Elsie  scarcely  left  her 
patient,  except  when  her  father  occasionally  came  to  take 
her  for  a  walk,  and  on  Sunday  evenings,  when  she  would 
take  tea  with  him,  tidy  up  the  house,  and  see  that  he  did 
not  fall  into  old  bachelor  ways,  returning  at  eight  o'clock 
to  her  duties. 

Ronald  Pentland  had  called  frequently  at  Woodlawn, 
but  Elsie  persistently  refused  to  see  him.  She  had,  after  a 
long  struggle,  obtained  control  of  her  feelings,  and  intended 
that  nothing  should  interfere  with  the  completion  of  the  task 
she  had  undertaken.  Besides  she  had  heard  reports  that  did 
not  please  her.  Ronald's  habits  were  growing  irregular,  and 
Elsie  was  told  that  he  drank  deeply  ;  that  he  would  ride 
like  mad  over  the  country,  jumping  fences  and  frightening 
peaceable  people  along  the  way  ;  that  his  associates  were 
not  the  choicest,  and  twice  he  had  been  carried  home  after 
being  thrown  from  his  horse.  He  was  laid  up  once  for  a 
month,  during  which  time  he  behaved  so  queerly  and 
spoke  so  incoherently  that  his  anxious  parents  did  not  know 
what  to  make  of  it.  The  physicians  could  find  no  physical 
ailment,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Ronald  was  suffer- 
ing from  mental  disease,  and  that  to  cure  it  would  require 
time  and  patience,  and  the  removal  of  the  cause,  whatever 
it  might  be. 

It  is  seldom  that  a  mother  does  not  find  out  the  trouble 
of  a  beloved  son,  and  Mrs.  Pentland  went  to  work  to  make 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  2/5 

a  diagnosis  of  Ronald's  complaint.  She  ascertained  that 
he  was  madly  in  love  with  Elsie  Vernon.  He  told  his 
mother  that  she  had  absolutely  refused  to  see  him,  that  it 
was  killing  him  by  inches,  and  that  he  had  to  drink  to 
drown  thought,  or  he  would  go  mad.  This  was  true  in  a 
measure,  but  remorse  also  affected  Ronald  Pentland.  He 
could  not  sleep,  and  his  manly  figure  was  wasting  away. 
Though  still  handsome,  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  de- 
bauchee^ and  he  was  so  changed  that  he  held  little  commu- 
nication with  his  parents.  This  almost  broke  his  mother's 
heart,  and,  in  despair,  she  determined  to  go  to  Elsie,  and 
implore  her  to  be  kinder  to  her  son. 

Ronald  Pentland  rarely  retired  till  after  midnight,  and 
was  up  early  in  the  morning  either  for  a  mad  ride  or  to 
range  with  dog  and  gun  over  hill  and  dale,  until,  tired  with 
hunting,  he  would  lie  down  under  some  tree  to  sleep. 
These  were  the  best  intervals  of  rest  that  he  obtained,  but, 
even  though  sleeping,  he  would  see  the  friend  of  his  youth 
in  chains  and  bowed  by  toil,  urged  by  a  cruel  taskmaster  be- 
yond his  strength.  He  thought  of  the  affection  that  once 
existed  between  Arthur  and  himself,  and  how  his  friend 
would  allow  him  to  go  beyond  him  in  his  class  to  save  him 
from  mortification.  He  remembered  also  how  Arthur  stood 
by  him  in  his  boyish  battles,  and  how  he  had  assumed  the 
task  of  thrashing  the  brutal  Bill  Briggs,  whom  he,  Ronald, 
had  later  taken  as  a  partner,  to  drive  Arthur  to  destruction. 

When  he  thought  of  all  this,  Ronald  would  become  ter- 
rified at  the  blackness  of  his  crimes,  would  shriek  like  a 
maniac,  and  hide  his  head  to  shut  out  the  vision.  Some- 
times he  would  try  to  pray,  but  prayers  would  not  come  to 
his  lips.  He  would  regret  his  crime,  but  then  would  come 
the  thought :  "  Would  I  not  rather  do  it  all  over  again  than 
see  him  possess  Elsie,  who  may  yet  learn  to  love  me  ?  "  If 
he  could  only  see  her,  he  could  win  her  love,  for  she  had 
always  been  fond  of  him,  and  he  felt  sure  that  there  was  no 
way  in  which  she  and  Arthur  could  ever  be  united,  as  the 


276 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


latter  had  been  sentenced  to  two  years  at  hard  labor  and  to 
ten  years  of  penal  servitude  in  Australia.  That  length  of 
time  in  prison  would  naturally  change  the  character  of  any 
man,  and  what  woman  would  consent  to  look  at  him  when 
his  term  had  expired  ?  After  consorting  with  criminals  for 
years,  that  was  out  of  the  question.  The  proud  blood  of 
the  Vernons  would  never  consent  to  such  an  alliance,  and 
without  that  consent  Elsie  would  never  marry.  This  argu- 
ment served  to  partially  console  Ronald,  but  he  determined 
to  bring  the  influence  of  his  mother  to  bear  to  insure  a  meet- 
ing with  the  woman  he  loved  to  distraction. 

Mrs.  Pentland  willingly  undertook  the  embassy,  and  one 
morning  went  over  to  VVoodlawn,  and  sent  up  for  Elsie, 
who  soon  appeared.  "  Dear  Mrs.  Pentland,"  she  said,  "  I 
feel  quite  happy  to-day  ;  Mrs.  Merton  is  much  brighter  this 
morning,  and  asked  me  to  sing  for  her." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Pentland,  kissing  her. 
"  God  will  reward  you  for  all  your  care  and  interest  in  the 
dear  invalid.  Mrs.  Merton  is  suffering  from  a  terrible 
shock,  and  some  chord  in  her  soul  may  one  day  be  struck 
by  the  feeling  of  joy,  and  restore  her  to  her  normal  condi- 
tion, for  joy  never  kills.  It  may  be  that  her  present  condition 
is  a  wise  dispensation  of  Providence  to  relieve  her  from  the 
anguish  she  would  suffer  if  she  knew  that  her  son  had  been 
transported  as  a  felon." 

Elsie's  face  flushed  at  the  words.  She  looked  indignant, 
and  replied  quickly :  "  You  should  have  added,  Mrs.  Pent- 
land, '  when  he  was  as  innocent  as  a  child,  through  a  vile 
plot  that  was  conceived  against  him.'  " 

"  Who  knows  ? "  said  Mrs.  Pentland,  who  had  not  no- 
ticed Elsie's  manner.  "  My  husband,  who  is  a  very  shrewd 
man,  says  that  there  can  be  no  mistake  in  a  trial  by  jury, 
and  that  the  system  is  the  palladium  of  British  liberty." 

"  And  yet,"  said  Elsie,  "  I  have  heard  of  cases  where 
men,  who  were  afterward  proved  innocent,  have  been  found 
guilty  and  hanged  on  circumstantial  evidence." 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  277 

"Well,  dear  Elsie,"  said  Mrs.  Pentland,  "  don't  let  us 
talk  about  this  matter  ;  it  is  too  painful.  Poor  Arthur  has 
been  condemned,  and  he  has  yet  over  ten  years  to  serve  be- 
fore he  can  ever  return  to  his  mother,  if  he  ever  does  return, 
for  the  chances  are  that  after  consorting  with  the  class  of 
people  with  whom  he  is  thrown,  he  would  not  return  the 
same  Arthur  who  left  here,  and,  then,  who  would  receive 
a  returned  convict  ?  " 

*'  I  would  I  "  exclaimed  Elsie,  rising  ;  "  I  would  receive 
him  with  rapture.  He  would  be  to  me  the  same  glorious 
Arthur  I  have  known  from  childhood  and  whom  I  shall  love 
and  respect  as  long  as  life  lasts.  His  innocence  will  yet 
be  established  and  his  character  will  shine  the  brighter  for 
the  odious  charges  brought  against  him.  The  people  who 
know  him  will  welcome  him  home  and  do  all  in  their  power 
to  make  amends  for  the  terrible  treatment  he  has  received." 

Mrs.  Pentland  was  astonished  at  finding  Elsie  so  strong 
an  advocate  for  a  disgraced  man,  but  she  said  to  herself  : 
"She  would  have  stood  up  for  Ronald  just  the  same  had  he 
been  in  Arthur's  place."  Aloud  she  said  :  "  Darling,  you 
are  a  noble  girl,  and  will  be  a  prize  to  the  man  to  whom  you 
give  your  hand,  but  I  came  to  talk  about  my  poor  Ronald 
who  feels  terribly  that  you  have  so  persistently  refused  to 
see  him." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Elsie,  "  but  when  I  took  charge  of 
Mrs.  Merton,  I  determined  to  give  my  entire  time  to  her 
service.  How  would  it  look  for  me  to  be  receiving  young 
men  at  a  time  when  my  heart  is  engrossed  with  the  care 
of  an  invalid  ?  I  should  condemn  myself  if  no  one  else  did." 

"  But,  Elsie,"  was  the  reply,  "  Ronald's  case  is  so  differ- 
ent. He  has  been  to  you  as  a  brother  and  now  you  are 
the  idol  he  worships.  You  will  be  enshrined  in  his  heart  while 
he  lives.  He  thinks  it  is  hard  that  you  should  separate 
yourself  from  him  when  he  would  so  gladly  assist  you  in 
your  labor  of  love.  You  are  killing  yourself  with  confine- 
ment ;  the  roses  are  fading  from  your  cheeks,  your  eyes  are 


2/8  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

not  so  bright  as  formerly,  looks  of  care  are  beginning  to 
show  themselves  on  your  face,  and  it  distresses  Ronald  to 
think  that  you  refuse  a  companionship  that  would  cheer  you 
up  and  might  bring  the  smiles  back  to  your  lips  and  the 
color  to  your  cheeks.  You  will  break  down  under  your  pres- 
ent system  if  you  continue  it.  The  world  does  not  expect 
you  to  sacrifice  yourself  in  your  devotion  to  one  who  is  not 
a  relative." 

"  You  are  mistaken  there,  Mrs.  Pentland,"  said  Elsie, 
"  and  we  might  as  well  understand  each  other.  I  am  bound 
to  Mrs.  Merton  by  ties  as  strong  as  those  of  nature — the 
love  I  bear  to  her  son  who  is  dearer  to  me  in  his  disgrace 
than  anybody  else  in  the  world.  I  am  his  affianced  wife,  and 
will  so  remain  until  death  takes  one  or  the  other  of  us  from 
this  sorrowful  world." 

Mrs.  Pentland  gasped  with  astonishment,  but  at  length 
she  found  words  in  which  to  express  herself.  "  Elsie,"  she 
said,  ^'has  your  close  confinement  unsettled  your  brain.? 
None  of  us  have  ever  imagined  this,  and  the  news  will  break 
poor  Ronald's  heart.  He  loves  you,  Elsie  ;  his  whole  soul 
is  wrapped  up  in  you,  and  from  the  time  that  he  could  fix 
his  heart  in  love  that  heart  has  been  entirely  yours.  He  has 
always  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  you  would  con- 
sent to  be  his  wife,  and  Mr.  Pentland  and  I  have  discussed 
the  matter  for  five  years  past.  Oh,  Elsie  !  why  can  not  you 
throw  off  these  feelings  which  are  causing  you  to  lead  an 
unnatural  life  and  give  happiness  to  those  who  love  you  so 
dearly  }  " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Pentland,"  said  Elsie,  "I  thank  you  and 
yours  for  all  the  kindness  you  have  shown  me.  You  will,  no 
doubt,  be  surprised  to  learn  that  before  Ronald  went  to 
London  he  laid  his  heart  bare  before  me.  I  can  not  tell  you 
how  it  pained  me  to  know  that  he  had  formed  that  kind  of 
affection  for  me  when  I  thought  his  love  only  of  a  brotherly 
nature.  I  told  him  it  would  be  useless  ever  to  think  of 
such  a  thing  as  marriage,  and  that  I  hoped  he  would  continue 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  279 

his  brotherly  feelings  toward  me  and  not  make  me  unhappy 
by  again  referring  to  the  matter.  He  implied  that  he  would 
be  guided  by  my  wishes,  and  I  have  kept  away  from  him 
that  I  might  not  encourage  hopes  that  can  never  be  fulfilled 
and  to  enable  me  to  follow  the  path  of  duty  I  have  marked 
out,  without  having  anything  to  make  me  more  unhappy 
than  I  am  already." 

Mrs.  Pentland  seemed  still  more  astonished.  "  Heavens!  " 
she  exclaimed,  "  Ronald  never  told  me  of  this  !  How  the 
poor  boy  must  have  suffered  in  keeping  this  secret  from  his 
mother,  to  whom  he  has  always  confided  everything  !  But, 
Elsie,  dear,  do  not  drive  him  to  despair.  See  him  some- 
times, and  do  not  have  it  on  your  conscience  that  you  wrecked 
a  life  that  might  have  been  a  star  among  men  but  for  you. 
At  least  encourage  him  to  do  right  and  not  to  throw  himself 
away,  for  no  one  has  so  much  influence  over  him  as  you. 
Let  this  be  a  part  of  your  service  on  earth.  If  you  bring 
Ronald  to  a  sense  of  his  injustice  to  his  parents  in  the  reck- 
less course  of  life  he  has  lately  pursued  you  will  be  entitled 
to  our  deepest  gratitude." 

"  I  will  see  him,"  said  Elsie,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  and 
talk  to  him,  but,  oh,  Mrs.  Pentland,  do  not  blame  me  for 
what  I  could  not  help.  I  never  gave  him  a  word  of  en- 
couragement in  my  life  to  lead  him  to  address  me." 

"Ah,  Elsie,"  said  Mrs.  Pentland,  "your  ways  were  very 
winsome  always,  and  you  have  that  sweet,  coquettish  way 
which  wins  men's  hearts.  Perhaps  pity  for  Ronald's  miser- 
able state  may  cause  you  to  relent  and  take  a  happier  view 
of  his  case ;  you  would  make  so  many  happy — while  there  is 
no  possibility  of  your  being  united  to  Arthur." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Elsie,  sadly,  "  but  while  Arthur  lives 
my  heart  will  cling  to  him  as  the  ivy  to  the  oak.  He  is 
my  support,  and  should  he  die  all  my  hopes  of  happiness  in 
this  life  will  perish.  I  will  see  Ronald  and  try  to  teach 
him  that  he  has  duties  in  life  which  call  for  sacrifices  and 
that  he  owes  it  to  his  parents  to  try  and  make  them  happy." 


28o  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,  thank  you.  See  Ronald  and  talk  to 
him.  I  am  sure  you  will  disperse  the  clouds  which  are 
lowering  over  him  as  the  sun  disperses  the  mists  of  the  morn- 
ing." Kissing  Elsie  fondly  Mrs.  Pentland  took  her  leave, 
her  heart  uplifted  with  joy  at  the  prospect  of  bringing  Elsie 
and  Ronald  together  once  more. 

The  following  day  Ronald  called  at  Woodlawn,  for  he 
could  not  restrain  his  impatience  to  see  Elsie,  but  there 
was  not  a  flutter  in  her  heart  at  the  visit  of  one  who  she 
knew  loved  her.  Her  love  for  Arthur  had  overmastered 
all  minor  affections,  and  though  she  had  once  held  Ronald  in 
such  high  esteem,  she  looked  forward  to  the  meeting  as  sim- 
ply with  an  old  acquaintance.  When  she  entered  the  room 
Ronald  stepped  forward  to  greet  her,  but  she  received  him 
calmly,  shaking  hands  as  if  she  had  seen  him  only  the  week 
before. 

^'  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Ronald,"  she  said,  "  and  if  I  have 
not  received  you  when  you  called  before  it  was  because  I 
have  higher  duties  to  perform  than  in  receiving  visits.  You 
do  not  look  well ;  you  must  be  careful  of  your  health  for  the 
sake  of  your  parents." 

"And  do  you  take  no  interest  in  my  welfare,  Elsie?" 
he  said,  *'  for  without  that  I  care  for  the  good  wishes  of  no 
one." 

''  Fie,  Ronald,  fie  ! "  she  said,  "that  is  the  most  unmanly 
expression  I  ever  heard  from  you.  Please  do  not  use  such 
words  of  flattery  if  you  wish  to  visit  me.  I  promised  your 
mother  I  would  see  you  and  try  to  remove  you  from  the 
morbid  state  into  which  you  have  fallen,  and  I  will  do  so  if 
you  will  permit  me  to  remain  the  same  friend  I  have  always 
been  to  you,  but  if  you  disturb  my  mind  by  reference  to 
that  which  is  past  I  shall  take  refuge  in  flight,  and  you  will 
see  me  no  more." 

Ronald  knew  Elsie's  determination  too  well  to  reject  her 
terms,  and  he  said  :  '*  I  accept  your  conditions,  Elsie.  All 
my  life  I  have  been  accustomed  to  your  society,  and  it  seems 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  28 1 

hard  that  I  should  be  deprived  of  it  as  if  I  had  committed 
some  dishonorable  act  and  was  without  the  pale  of  your  for- 
giveness. It  may  look  to  the  world  as  if  this  was  the  case, 
while,  in  fact,  I  have  done  nothing  but  sympathize  with  you 
in  what  you  have  undertaken — a  work  that  has  endeared  you 
more  and  more  to  all  who  know  you.  But  don't  you  think, 
Elsie,  that  you  are  unjust  to  yourself  in  the  life  you  are  lead- 
ing? I  can  see  a  change  in  you,  and  the  roses  which  were 
blooming  on  your  cheeks  and  which  gave  such  luster  to 
your  beauty  are  fading.  It  is  as  if  I  had  awakened  in  the 
morning  after  a  shower  and  found  my  most  beautiful  rose- 
bush broken  and  the  flowers  scattered  on  the  ground.  You 
should  be  more  careful  of  your  health,  for,  if  you  should 
break  down  what  would  become  of  your  patient  ?  " 

"I  walk  and  take  exercise  with  my  father,"  she  said, 
''but  not  so  much  as  I  should,  as  he  is  growing  old  and  can 
not  stand  much  fatigue." 

''Well,  then,"  said  he,  "let  me  call  for  you  on  such  days 
as  you  do  not  go  with  your  father.  We  will  extend  the 
walk.  You  remember  the  long  walks  you  and  I  and  dear 
Arthur  used  to  take  ?  " 

Elsie's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  hearing  the  events  of  her 
past  happy  Hfe  thus  spoken  of,  and  she  could  not  resist  feel- 
ing most  kindly  toward  Ronald  for  the  affectionate  way  in 
which  he  spoke  of  Arthur.  "Thank  you,"  she  said,  "for 
your  kind  words  for  poor  Arthur.  There  is,  then,  one  per- 
son in  the  world  besides  myself  that  does  not  doubt  him." 

"/  doubt  him  !  "  exclaimed  Ronald.  "  I  know  him  to  be 
incapable  of  crime  and  as  innocent  as  a  babe."  He  spoke 
warmly,  and  no  one  knew  better  than  he  how  true  were  his 
words.  "  You  must  not  suppose,  Elsie,"  he  continued,  "  that 
you  are  the  only  one  who  sympathizes  with  Arthur  in  his 
misfortunes  ;  his  cruel  fate  almost  broke  my  heart.  At  times 
I  have  almost  been  deranged  when  thinking  of  it,  and  have 
been  obliged  to  mount  my  horse  and  ride  like  mad  over 
hill  and  dale.     The  country  people  about  here  think  me 


282  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

crazy,  but  I  assure  you,  Elsie,  my  conduct  has  all  been 
owing  to  my  sympathy  for  Arthur,  whom  I  loved  as  much 
as  any  man  ever  loved  another.  When  I  lost  his  compan- 
ionship I  felt  as  if  one  of  my  limbs  had  been  lopped  off. 
His  sentence  will  forever  remain  a  stigma  upon  the  jury 
which  convicted  him,  but  he  will  come  out  of  this  trouble 
some  day  pure  and  undefiled.  I  would  have  given  my  life 
to  save  him  from  being  sentenced,  and  worked  day  and 
night  in  his  behalf." 

By  this  time  Elsie  was  weeping  bitterly.  She  seized 
Ronald's  hand,  and  said  :  "  Did  you  do  all  that,  dear  Ron- 
ald }  I  never  knew  it,  and  have  been  accusing  all  the  world 
for  taking  no  interest  in  him.  Thank  you  again  and  again. 
Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  have  some  one  to  whom  I  can  talk  of 
Arthur  and  his  misfortunes  !  Only  to  think  how  his  noble 
soul  must  be  crushed  under  the  weight  of  his  disgrace  !  He 
can  not  endure  it  long,  and  I  expect  at  any  time  to  hear  of 
his  death.  Death  would  be  welcome  after  the  separation 
from  all  that  his  heart  holds  dear.  I  shall  mourn  him  while 
I  live,  and  hope  to  meet  him  in  a  better  world.  To-morrow, 
Ronald,  we  will  take  a  walk  and  visit  some  of  the  scenes  so 
dear  to  us,  but  now,  good-by,  I  must  go  to  my  invalid." 

Ronald  was  much  delighted  at  the  turn  matters  had 
taken.  He  had  been  so  long  mixed  up  in  intrigues  that  he 
thought  he  saw  a  way  in  which  he  could  turn  the  promised 
walks  to  his  advantage,  provided  he  was  cautious  and  pa- 
tient in  following  up  his  designs.  With  a  light  heart  he 
walked  home  and  sought  his  mother.  Mrs.  Pentland  no- 
ticed his  changed  condition  at  once,  and  ran  to  embrace 
him.  ''Oh!  my  son,"  she  said,  "I  see  that  Elsie  has  been 
kind  to  you.  God  grant  that  this  may  continue,  and  who 
knows  but  that  it  will  all  end  well  ? " 

"  She  has  asked  me  to  walk  with  her,  mother,  to-morrow, 
to  revisit  some  of  the  scenes  we  loved  so  well  in  days  gone 
by,  but  this  is  a  piece  of  sentiment  connected  with  Arthur, 
and  not  on  account  of  any  feelings  she  has  for  me.     I  am 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  283 

only  the  brother  she  knew  in  childhood — Arthur  is  the  love 
of  her  life." 

"Persevere,"  said  his  mother,  *' and  sympathize  with  her 
in  her  grief ;  nothing  wins  so  much  on  another  as  sympathy 
with  their  misfortunes.  She  may  yet  find  in  you  the  quali- 
ties the  other  possessed  in  her  eyes,  for,  Ronald,  you  were 
very  much  alike  in  many  things,  and  you  were  the  hand- 
somer of  the  two." 

Ronald's  face  flushed  as  his  mother  paid  him  these  com- 
pliments, for  he  knew  how  little  he  deserved  them,  and  what 
a  traitor  to  his  friend  and  how  base  he  had  been,  but  he  sank 
his  rem.orse  in  the  bright  view  of  the  future  which  stretched 
out  before  him.  The  mother  and  son  talked  for  hours  about 
future  prospects  and  parted  at  midnight,  Ronald  to  dream 
over  bright  visions  which  for  some  time  past  he  had  given 
up  all  hope  of  realizing.  In  his  brightest  dreams  there 
would,  however,  rise  before  him  the  form  of  the  friend  whom 
he  had  consigned  to  an  ignominious  fate,  pointing  at  him 
and  crying  out,  "  Thou  art  the  man  !  " 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

More  than  a  year  had  passed  since  Arthur's  incarcera- 
tion in  Millbank  prison,  but  few  of  his  most  intimate  friends 
knew  where  he  was.  Elsie  had  been  given  the  impression 
that  he  had  been  sent  to  Australia,  and  that  it  was  probable 
he  would  never  return  from  that  country  alive,  as  he  would, 
most  likely,  sink  under  his  disgrace.  It  was  sixteen  months 
after  Arthur  was  placed  in  prison  that  Ronald  had  his  in- 
terview with  Elsie.  The  following  day  Ronald  called  at 
Woodlawn,  and  found  Elsie  dressed  in  mourning,  waiting 
his  appearance.  She  took  his  arm,  and  said  :  "  There  is  a 
place  dear  to  us  both,  from  memories  of  Arthur  ;  some  of  our 
happiest  days  were  spent  there  in  company.     Those  bright 


284  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

days  seem  like  a  dream  to  me  now.    Let  us  go  to  the  mound 
where  we  used  to  sit  and  feed  the  doves." 

"  WilUngly,"  said  Ronald. 

"  My  poor  doves,"  continued  Elsie,  "  how  I  have  neg- 
lected them  !  and  my  poor  father  can  not  supply  my  place. 
Do  you  know,  Ronald,  papa  is  failing  very  fast }  This  blow 
seems  to  have  crushed  him,  and  he  sits  and  mopes  all  day, 
although  I  try  my  best  to  cheer  him  up.  We  will  go  and 
see  him  this  morning.  He  loves  you  dearly,  and  I  hope  you 
will  call  and  see  him  sometimes  ;  but  you  must  be  careful 
what  you  say,  for  he  dislikes  to  talk  about  Arthur." 

"  I  will  do  as  you  wish,  Elsie,"  replied  Ronald,  "  and  I 
think  I  can  bring  your  father  to  talk  about  our  dear  friend, 
and  to  sympathize  in  our  sorrows." 

They  walked  along  side  by  side,  talking  as  they  used  to 
do  in  days  gone  by,  Ronald's  heart  beating  tumultuously  at 
the  idea  of  being  at  the  side  of  the  woman  he  loved,  while 
she  thought  only  of  the  promise  she  had  made  Mrs.  Pent- 
land  to  rescue  her  son  from  the  fate  which  threatened  him. 
Having  felt  a  new  pleasure  in  talking  to  him  in  regard  to 
Arthur  the  previous  day,  Elsie  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
that  he  was  once  a  suitor  for  her  hand.  She  did  not  forget 
it,  but  thought  she  was  sufficiently  mistress  of  herself  to 
check  Ronald  in  any  demonstration  of  love,  and  she  longed 
to  have  some  one  with  whom  she  could  talk  of  Arthur,  some 
one  who  could  sympathize  with  her.  She  felt,  therefore,  too 
contented  with  the  new  arrangement  to  raise  any  question 
with  herself  in  regard  to  the  propriety  of  her  course. 

Ronald  had  deceived  her  so  completely  with  his  prot- 
estations of  affection  for  Arthur,  that  Elsie  never  doubted 
his  sincerity.  And  why  should  she  ?  She  had  always 
known  Ronald  as  upright  and  honorable,  second  only  to  the 
beloved  of  her  soul,  and  now,  when  her  heart  is  almost  fam- 
ished for  want  of  sympathy,  Ronald  comes  to  her  rescue  as 
the  only  one  who  believed  implicitly  in  Arthur's  innocence. 
Her  father  did  not  say  much  at  any  time,  though  he  always 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  285 

listened  to  her  patiently.  What  a  Godsend,  then,  it  was  to 
have  Ronald  again  as  her  companion  !  He  listened  to  her 
and  encouraged  her  to  talk,  and  entered  warmly  into  her 
feelings,  while,  with  the  duplicity  which  had  become  part  of 
his  nature,  he  led  her  to  believe  that  he  had  sunk  his  own 
feelings  in  the  commiseration  he  felt  for  her  woes.  He  de- 
ceived her  entirely  in  this  matter,  for  she  could  not  con- 
ceive that  the  honorable  boy  who  had  been  almost  a  part  of 
her  life,  *'  could  assume  a  virtue  though  he  had  it  not."  So 
Elsie  fell  into  the  snare,  and  gave  that  confidence  to  Ron- 
ald which,  at  one  time,  she  supposed  could  never  be  given 
to  any  one  but  Arthur. 

But  who  can  tell  the  varying  phases  of  a  woman's  char- 
acter? A  woman  must  have  some  one  to  lean  upon,  to 
whom  she  can  tell  her  sorrows.  Men  will  carry  their  afilic- 
tions  in  their  hearts  and  the  world  be  no  wiser.  Man  is 
formed  by  his  Creator  to  withstand  storms  which  would  over- 
whelm a  woman,  and  he  will  bear  his  burden  in  a  silence 
that  is  foreign  to  a  woman's  character.  Take,  for  example, 
the  case  of  Eustis  Ferris,  who,  for  so  many  years  had  borne 
his  misfortunes  with  a  calmness  which  showed  the  greatness 
of  his  soul.  Whatever  sorrow  he  felt  he  never  sought  a 
confidant,  nor  exhibited  his  grief  to  a  pitiless  world.  He 
never  forgot  the  loss  of  the  woman  he  loved.  She  was  en- 
shrined in  his  heart  so  deeply  that  nothing  could  divert  his 
thoughts  from  her  image  and  the  memory  of  those  blissful 
days  when  he  walked  with  her  along  the  banks  of  the  Avon. 
You  may  break,  you  may  ruin  the  vase,  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 

Elsie  had  no  one  on  whom  she  could  lean.  She  could  not 
talk  with  her  father  about  Arthur,  as  the  subject  seemed  to 
distress  him,  nor  could  she  converse  with  Mrs.  Merton,  for 
it  was  necessary  to  avoid  any  mention  of  Arthur's  name  in 
any  way  that  would  give  her  a  clew  to  the  facts  of  the  case. 
Therefore,  it  was  a  gleam  of  sunshine  to  her  when  Ronald 
presented   himself   with    sympathies,  apparently,  in   unison 


286  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

with  her  own,  ready  to  talk  about  Arthur  whenever  she  de- 
sired. So  on  this  day  Elsie  was  eager  to  begin  the  conver- 
sation. Thus  far  she  had  known  little  of  Arthur's  case  be- 
yond the  fact  that  he  had  been  condemned  to  twelve  years' 
servitude,  for  her  father  had  never  told  her  the  details  of 
the  event,  and  had  sedulously  kept  newspapers  out  of  her 
reach. 

They  wandered  on,  talking  of  Arthur,  until  the  rectory 
and  the  mound  came  in  sight.  When  they  reached  the  lat- 
ter they  sat  down,  and  Elsie  was  overcome  with  emotion. 
Ronald  took  her  hand,  and  said  :  *'  Dear  Elsie,  do  not  pain 
me  by  these  exhibitions.  I  feel  as  you  do,  and  would  like  to 
shed  tears  with  you,  but  can  not.  I  can  only  give  you  my 
deepest  sympathy,  and  wonder  why  Heaven  permitted  such 
indignities  to  be  visited  upon  an  innocent  man." 

Elsie  allowed  her  hand  to  remain  in  his  ;  she  was,  in  fact, 
unconscious  that  it  was  there.  How  his  pulses  throbbed  as 
he  felt  her  warm  fingers  convulsively  clasp  his  own  !  He 
had  never  expected  to  hold  that  hand  again  as  he  had  done 
in  his  boyish  days.  There  they  sat,  indulging  in  their 
thoughts,  Elsie  almost  forgetful  that  Ronald  was  by  her  side, 
when  the  rustle  of  wings  attracted  her  attention.  The  doves 
had  recognized  her,  and  the  whole  flock  came  to  greet  their 
mistress,  whom  they  had  hardly  seen  for  weeks. 

"  Dear  neglected  pets  !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  gave  the 
familiar  chirp,  at  which  her  winged  friends  flew  to  her  feet, 
the  particular  pet  perching  upon  her  shoulder.  *'  Ronald," 
said  Elsie,  "  this  reminds  me  that  it  is  sinful  in  me  to  in- 
dulge in  morbid  feelings,  when  I  have  so  many  dependent 
upon  me  for  happiness.  These  beautiful  doves  are  of  im- 
portance in  the  eyes  of  God,  and  we  have  no  right  to  neg- 
lect them.  I  must  look  after  them  oftener.  Papa  is  forget- 
ful, and  the  housekeeper  has  so  much  to  attend  to  that  I 
expect  my  pets  are  not  fed  regularly.  See  how  clamorous 
they  are  for  something  to  eat,  and  I  have  not  a  thing  to  give 
them." 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  287 

"  Well,"  said  Ronald,  ''  before  leaving  home  I  put  these 
rolls  in  my  pocket  in  anticipation  of  our  coming  here." 

"  How  thoughtful  of  you,  Ronald  !  "  she  said.  "  But  you 
were  ever  regardful  of  me." 

"And  hope  I  shall  ever  be,"  said  Ronald,  impetuously. 

This  outburst  rather  startled  Elsie  for  a  moment,  and  she 
looked  at  him  anxiously  to  see  if  there  was  any  covert  mean- 
ing in  what  he  said,  but  Ronald's  face  gave  no  indication  of 
his  feelings.  Elsie  began  to  feed  the  doves,  who  were  tram- 
pling over  and  pecking  at  one  another  in  their  eagerness  to 
obtain  food. 

"I  never  saw  them  behave  so  badly  before,"  said  Elsie, 
"  they  have  been  neglected,  and  are  actually  suffering.  My 
conscience  reproves  me,  and  I  must  come  every  day  and  feed 
them." 

''  And  will  you  let  me  join  you  ?  "  inquired  Ronald. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  pleased  to  have  this  excuse  to  talk 
about  Arthur.  At  length,  when  the  doves  had  eaten  the 
last  morsel  of  the  rolls,  she  gave  a  signal,  and  they  flew  away 
to  the  dovecote. 

"  Now,"  said  Elsie,  "  let  us  pay  a  visit  to  dear  papa.  I 
have  neglected  him  of  late,  and  he  will,  no  doubt,  think  me 
unkind." 

Mr.  Vernon  had  been  a  witness  to  the  scene  that  was 
going  on  outside.  He  was  sitting  at  the  study  window  when 
the  two  seated  themselves  upon  the  mound.  He  could 
hardly  believe  his  senses  at  first,  and  took  up  his  field-glass 
to  satisfy  himself  that  his  eyes  had  not  deceived  him.  His 
heart  leaped  for  joy  when  he  saw  the  two  seated  on  the 
mound,  and  he  hoped  that  this  would  break  up  the  morbid 
feelings  in  which  Elsie  had  been  indulging.  In  fact,  he 
came  to  a  conclusion  too  quickly,  and  thought  the  old  inti- 
macy between  Elsie  and  Ronald  might  revive  and  his 
daughter  be  made  happy  once  more  by  a  union  with  one 
who,  no  doubt,  would  have  been  her  first  choice  had  not 
Arthur  come  upon  the  scene. 


288  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

As  a  student  of  human  nature,  Mr.  Vernon  had  seen  how 
often  a  wounded  heart  had  been  healed  when  a  new  and 
attractive  lover  appeared.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  his 
daughter  oppressed  with  sorrow  over  a  lover  who  was  lost 
to  her  forever,  and  he  was,  at  times,  unjust  to  her  for  cling- 
ing to  one  who  had  undergone  a  felon's  sentence,  and  who 
could  never  show  himself  in  society  again.  As  they  ap- 
proached the  house  the  rector  went  to  the  door  to  meet 
them. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  *'it  gives  me  joy  to 
see  you  once  more  in  company  with  your  old  friend,  and, 
Ronald,  I  am  glad  to  welcome  you,  though  I  have  a  right 
to  reproach  you  for  being  neglectful  of  me.  Now  that  the 
ice  is  broken,  I  hope  you  will  come  often,  for  I  am  very 
lonely  since  Elsie  took  upon  herself  the  charge  of  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton." 

These  words  were  said  rather  sadly,  and  the  reproach 
went  to  Elsie's  heart.  "  Papa,  dear,"  she  said,  kissing  him, 
"  we  will  come  to  see  you  oftener  now  that  Mrs.  Merton  is 
improving  so  fast.  She  can  dress  herself  with  very  little 
assistance,  and  sits  at  the  window  with  her  binocular  glass 
watching  the  ships  as  they  pass  along.  She  talks  a  great 
deal  now,  and  every  day  I  notice  improvement  in  her  mind, 
but  fortunately  she  remains  oblivious  of  the  past  and  does 
not  speak  of  the  time  that  Arthur  left  her." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  said  the  rector.  "  We  should  rather 
desire  that  she  should  remain  in  this  state  of  forgetfulness 
than  otherwise.  She  is  happy  now,  and  what  more  should  a 
human  being  ask  for  in  this  world  ?  "  All  sat  in  silence  for 
some  time  busy  with  their  thoughts,  when  Mr.  Vernon  roused 
the  two  young  people  from  their  musing  by  saying,  *'  You 
must  stay  and  take  luncheon  with  me,"  which  they  gladly 
consented  to  do.  They  remained  an  hour  with  the  rector 
chatting  pleasantly,  and  then  the  young  people  rose  and,  bid- 
Mr.  Vernon  good-day,  they  departed  on  their  way  home- 
ward. 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  289 

"  Ronald,"  said  Elsie,  "  I  have  one  favor  to  ask  of  you — 
take  me  to  the  hut  in  the  wood  where  Arthur  and  I  last 
parted." 

"  Anything  to  give  you  pleasure,"  said  Ronald.  "  Come, 
let  us  go  there,"  though  he  remembered  with  bitterness  the 
parting  he  had  witnessed  and  what  a  hatred  it  had  produced 
against  his  once  dear  friend.  Elsie  was  much  pleased  with 
his  concessions  to  her  wishes,  and  this  day  had  brought  much 
consolation  to  her  heart. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  spot  in  the  wood  where  she  had 
parted  with  Arthur  she  quivered  like  a  leaf  and  sat  down  on 
a  fallen  tree.  Ronald  did  not  interrupt  her,  but  let  her  tears 
flow  on  until  she  gradually  became  quiet.  Then  she  rose, 
took  his  arm,  and  they  walked  on.  "  On  that  spot,  Ronald," 
she  said,  "  I  parted  with  Arthur  for  the  last  time,  and  it  will 
ever  be  sacred  to  me.     Bear  with  my  weakness." 

"  Elsie,"  said  he,  "  I  am  always  at  your  service." 

Elsie  looked  forward  now  from  day  to  day  for  Ronald's 
coming  to  Woodlawn.  A  new  life  had  opened  for  her 
since  she  had  found  one  who  sympathized  so  fully  with  her 
sorrows.  Ronald  made  no  objection  to  her  encouraging 
these  feelings,  for  he  saw  that  something  like  her  old  spirits 
were  returning  to  her. 

Three  weeks  were  passed  in  daily  walks,  and  Elsie's  health 
rapidly  improved.  Her  patient  showed  no  desire  to  keep 
her  continually  by  her  side  but,  on  the  contrary,  urged  her 
to  go  out,  saying  :  ''  I  want  you  to  look  your  prettiest,  dear 
Elsie,  when  Arthur  returns,  and  you  can  not  do  that  if  you 
remain  shut  up  in  the  house.  I  hope  to  walk  soon  with 
you  myself,  though  I  am  happy  here  looking  for  Arthur's 
ship.     I  shall  know  her,  for  he  will  make  me  a  signal." 

Ronald  had  watched  keenly  the  progress  of  events,  and 
saw  that  Elsie  believed  Arthur  would  never  return  to  her. 
What  disturbed  her  most  was  the  thought  of  the  shock  his 
proud  nature  must  have  felt  at  his  disgrace,  and  she  would 
sometimes  say  :  *'  Much  better  that  death  should  come  to 
19 


290 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


his  relief.  And  to  think  that  he  has  ten  more  long  years  to 
suffer  in  Australia  !  It  is  too  dreadful  to  think  of.  Better 
that  God  should  take  him  to  himself." 

About  this  time  Ronald  was  called  to  London  on  busi- 
ness, and  an  idea  struck  him  which  he  determined  to  put 
into  execution.  On  his  arrival  in  the  city  he  went  to  the 
shop  of  an  engraver  of  low  repute,  and  gave  him  the  drawing 
of  a  stamp  he  wished  made.  It  was  the  canceling  stamp 
of  the  Melbourne  post-office,  dated  two  months  back,  after 
obtaining  which,  Ronald  went  to  his  hotel,  where  he  wrote 
a  letter  purporting  to  be  from  the  chaplain  of  a  convict 
ship  on  which  Arthur  had  been  sent  to  Australia,  declaring 
that,  overcome  with  grief  and  shame  at  his  misfortunes,  Ar- 
thur had  died  and  been  buried  at  sea.  It  further  stated 
that  Arthur  was  perfectly  happy  at  the  prospect  of  a  rest 
in  a  better  world.  Ronald  put  the  letter  in  the  post-office, 
directed  to  himself  at  Moorland,  and  returned  home.  The 
next  day  the  forged  missive  arrived  with  the  London  post- 
mark attached,  to  which  Ronald  added  that  of  Melbourne, 
and  chuckled  to  himself  at  the  thought  of  what  it  might 
bring  to  him.  Arthur  dead,  Elsie  might  in  time  be  willing 
to  accept  him  on  account  of  his  sympathy  for  Arthur. 

He  trembled  in  every  limb  as  he  approached  Woodlawn 
the  next  day,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  mourning.  He  was  play- 
ing a  desperate  game  and  was  liable  to  be  exposed,  but  this 
was  the  only  way  he  could  think  of  to  win  Elsie,  and  he 
had  played  the  villain  so  deeply  before  that  he  did  not  hes- 
itate to  adopt  any  course  that  would  enable  him  to  gain 
his  ends.  Besides,  who  could  prove  anything  against  him  ? 
He  had  received  a  letter  he  could  not  question,  written 
by  a  clergyman.     He  summoned  courage  and  rang  the  bell. 

Elsie  went  to  the  parlor,  where  she  found  Ronald  seated, 
looking  the  picture  of  grief.  She  was  shocked  at  seeing  him 
in  mourning,  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  regarded  him  in- 
tently, and,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper,  asked  : 
*'  What  has  happened,  Ronald  .''  " 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  29 1 

He  took  her  hand,  and  said  :  '*  Elsie,  dear,  I  am  the 
bearer  of  sad  tidings — news  that  will  almost  kill  you.  You 
must  call  up  all  your  courage  to  hear  what  I  have  to  tell." 

"  Arthur  is  dead,"  she  said,  calmly  ;  "  I  see  it  in  your  face. 
Is  it  not  so  .''  '* 

Ronald  silently  handed  her  the  letter,  which  she  eagerly 
seized  and  read.  When  she  had  finished,  she  fainted.  He 
was  appalled  when  he  saw  Elsie  lying  on  the  floor.  ''  My 
God !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  have  killed  her.  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 
His  courage  and  calmness  deserted  him  and  he  felt  as  if  he 
were  a  murderer. 

Fortunately  at  that  moment  Mr.  Vernon  entered  the 
room.  What  was  his  astonishment  to  see  his  daughter  lying 
on  the  floor  with  a  letter  clasped  to  her  bosom.  He  rushed 
to  her  side  at  once  and  raised  her  head  to  his  lap.  "  Ring 
the  bell  quickly,"  he  said  ;  ''  call  Mrs.  Merton's  nurse;  bring 
water  and  smelling-salts  !  "  Then  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
daughter's  heart,  and  finding  it  was  beating  his  hopes  re- 
vived. 

The  man  servant  was  sent  for  the  doctor,  the  nurse  soon 
came,  took  Elsie  in  charge,  and,  with  the  aid  of  the  maid, 
carried  her  to  her  room,  where,  using  restoratives,  she  soon 
began  to  recover  consciousness.  After  a  few  minutes,  open- 
ing her  eyes  and  looking  at  her  father,  she  said  :  "Papa,  I 
have  just  seen  Arthur.  He  is  dead,  and  bids  us  not  to  grieve 
for  him  as  he  is  happy  in  heaven  where  his  innocence  is 
known.  His  sufferings  were  great  on  earth  and  death  is  a 
blessed  release  to  him."  Then  she  burst  into  tears,  and 
came  near  fainting  a  second  time. 

Elsie  remained  several  days  in  bed,  then  she  dressed  her- 
self and  went  calmly  to  her  patient's  room,  kissing  her  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  During  the  time  she  had  spent  in 
bed  she  had  thought  over  the  condition  of  affairs.  She  had 
w^ept  over  Arthur  and  buried  him  in  the  deepest  recesses 
of  her  heart,  but  she  did  not  forget  that  she  had  duties  to 
perform  which  would   require  all   her  care  and  attention. 


292 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


She  even  felt  a  sense  of  relief  in  knowing  that  Arthur  would 
suffer  no  more  indignities,  and  trusted  that  his  character 
would  finally  be  cleared. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

Ronald  went  daily  to  inquire  after  Elsie,  and  on  the 
fourth  day  was  rewarded  with  an  interview.  Elsie  was  very 
pale  but  calm,  and  in  her  deep  mourning  looked  like  a  saint 
sent  to  earth  to  comfort  suffering  humanity. 

"  It  is  all  over  now,  Ronald,"  said  Elsie  ;  "  and  my  hopes 
of  ever  seeing  Arthur  again  in  this  world  are  at  an  end.  He 
appeared  to  me  in  a  dream,  told  me  he  was  happy  and  re- 
lieved from  the  tortures  he  suffered  on  earth ;  that  I  must 
not  grieve  for  him,  but  rather  rejoice  that  his  sufferings  were 
ended.  Now,  Ronald,  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to  the  spot  * 
where  I  parted  for  the  last  time  with  Arthur."  Elsie  then 
retired  to  make  preparations  for  her  walk. 

To  describe  Ronald's  transports  would  be  impossible. 
He  had  expected  to  find  Elsie  in  despair,  but  no  doubt  the 
dream  her  imagination  had  conjured  up  had  given  the  pres- 
ent direction  to  her  thoughts  ;  but  he  trusted  to  the  oppor- 
tunities he  would  have  to  win  her  love,  as  he  had  already 
secured  her  confidence.  Ronald  had  a  tortuous  path  to 
travel,  and  it  behooved  him  to  keep  a  good  look-out  accord- 
ingly. 

Ever  since  Arthur  had  been  consigned  to  Millbank  prison 
he  had  persistently  refused  to  hold  any  communication  with 
the  outside  world,  and  had  rejected  all  overtures  from  his 
friends.  He  considered  himself  as  dead  to  the  world.  He 
felt  sure  that  Elsie's  father  would  not  permit  her  to  write  to 
him,  and  she  might,  perhaps,  be  under  the  impression  that 
there  was  some  truth  in  the  charges  against  him.  Arthur 
determined  to  hold  no  intercourse  with  any  of  his  friends 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  293 

save  his  mother  until  his  innocence  should  be  made  mani- 
fest to  the  world. 

His  mother's  silence  led  Arthur  to  suspect  that  she  was 
dead,  and  he  supposed  that  his  friends  had  determined  not 
to  notify  him  because  they  did  not  wish  to  add  to  his  unhap- 
piness. 

In  the  mean  while  Ronald  was  on  the  watch  to  see  that 
no  letters  came  from  Millbank  to  Mr.  Vernon,  Squire  Pent- 
land,  or  other  of  Arthur's  friends,  and  with  this  object  took 
care  to  be  at  the  post-office  when  the  mail  was  distributed. 
Thus  far  he  had  found  no  letters  from  the  prison. 

Ronald  and  Elsie  started  on  their  walk,  few  words  being 
uttered  until  they  reached  the  little  hut.  There  Elsie  seated 
herself  and  gave  way  to  her  emotions.  Ronald  quietly 
waited  until  his  companion  became  calmer. 

''  He  told  me  to  be  happy,  Ronald,  and  not  demur  ;  that 
I  must  learn  to  curb  these  tears.  Be  patient  with  me  for  a 
while  until  I  learn  to  bear  my  load  with  resignation.  We 
will  try  to  look  upon  Arthur's  death  as  a  blessing  in  disguise, 
and  think  of  him  as  the  denizen  of  a  happier  land  than 
ours." 

"  That  is  the  proper  view  to  take  of  the  matter  Elsie," 
said  Ronald,  "  for  who  are  we  that  should  murmur  at  the 
decrees  of  Providence.  We  will  talk  always  of  Arthur,  re- 
call his  virtues,  and  think  that  our  separation  from  him  is 
only  temporary." 

Such  conversation  was  a  great  consolation  to  poor  Elsie, 
who  thanked  God  that  she  had  still  left  a  friend  to  sympa- 
thize with  and  cheer  her. 

These  walks  continued  daily  for  a  month,  until  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton  questioned  her  as  to  who  was  her  companion.  When 
told  that  it  was  Ronald  Pentland,  Mrs.  Merton  said  :  "  He 
is  Arthur's  most  intimate  friend  ;  but,  Elsie,  Arthur  will  soon 
be  home,  and  you  will  have  him  to  walk  with."  Elsie  could 
scarcely  refrain  from  tears  at  this  speech,  and  was  obliged  to 
quit  the  room  to  hide  her  agitation,  much  to  Mrs.  Merton's 


294  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

astonishment ;  but  as  her  mind  was  not  yet  restored  to  its 
normal  strength,  she  soon  forgot  all  about  it. 

Five  months  passed  away  during  which  these  sympathetic 
walks  continued,  constantly  lengthening,  so  that  both  Elsie 
and  Ronald  improved  in  health  and  appearance.  How  little 
did  Elsie  dream  of  Arthur  being  still  alive  or  of  the  stirring 
scenes  through  which  he  had  passed  !  She  talked  of  him 
constantly  to  Ronald,  and  he  encouraged  her  to  do  so,  feeling 
that  he  was  knitting  their  souls  together  by  a  bond  of  sym- 
pathy that  would  finally  enable  him  to  gain  his  ends.  He 
knew  enough  of  human  nature  to  believe  that  a  wounded 
heart  must  have  some  one  on  whom  to  lean.  He  was  not 
far  wrong  in  his  idea. 

One  day  while  they  were  sitting  together  on  the  mound 
and  Elsie  as  usual  was  dilating  upon  the  merits  of  Arthur, 
Ronald  interrupted  her.  He  had  borne  patiently  with  Elsie 
for  many  months  for  reasons  of  his  own,  but  he  thought 
the  time  had  arrived  when  he  could  speak  freely  to  her  in 
his  own  behalf.  There  was  a  tacit  agreement  between  them 
that  he  should  not  refer  to  the  subject  of  his  love  for  her. 
He  was  doomed  therefore  to  listen  to  Elsie's  woes  without 
the  power  of  mentioning  his  own.  Here  she  was  cherishing 
sentiments  toward  a  man  disgraced  and  supposed  to  be  dead, 
while  a  living  lover  ready  to  make  her  happy,  was  constantly 
at  her  side. 

Both  of  Ronald's  parents  and  Elsie's  father  had  been  in- 
formed of  Arthur's  death,  and  considered  it  a  fortunate 
event  for  all  concerned.  Ronald's  mother  urged  him  to 
propose  to  Elsie,  feeling  sure  that  she  would  accept  him,  and 
Mr.  Vernon  was  daily  hoping  that  the  young  people  would 
announce  to  him  their  engagement. 

Of  this  Ronald  was  well  aware,  and  being  assisted  by 
such  able  coadjutors  he  determined  to  bring  Elsie  to  terms 
on  the  first  favorable  opportunity. 

On  the  occasion  we  have  mentioned  Ronald  interrupted 
Elsie,  saying  :  "  You  seem  to  forget  that  Arthur  has  appeared 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


295 


to  you  in  spirit  and  begged  you  not  to  mourn  for  him,  as 
he  was  far  happier  in  heaven  than  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
be  on  earth  ;  with  all  your  sympathy  for  Arthur  you  never 
express  any  for  me,  who  am  daily  suffering  the  torments  of 
the  damned.  My  youth  is  passing  rapidly  away,  and  my 
heart  is  crushed  by  the  grief  you  daily  exhibit  for  Arthur 
in  heaven,  while  you  take  no  thought  of  me.  Only  your 
hand,  Elsie,  can  save  me  from  destruction,  so  I  beg  you  will 
stretch  it  forth  and  rescue  me  from  a  fate  worse  than  death. 
When  I  saw  that  Arthur  loved  you  I  failed  to  press  my 
suit,  especially  as  I  did  not  believe  that  you  loved  him  more 
than  you  did  me.  After  I  was  thrown  from  my  horse  I 
knew  that  Arthur  had  proposed  to  you,  and  not  knowing 
whether  you  had  accepted  him  or  not  I  took  the  opportunity 
to  tell  you  of  the  love  I  had  borne  you  for  so  many  years. 
Now,  tell  me,  Elsie,  after  all  these  months  of  patient  waiting 
and  sympathy  in  all  your  sorrows,  if  there  is  any  hope  for  me. 
If  there  is  not  I  must  bear  my  burden  in  silence  until  death 
puts  an  end  to  my  sorrows.  Do  you  not  think,  Elsie,  that 
there  is  something  due  to  me  who  have  so  loved  you — who 
would  lay  down  his  life  for  you  "^  You  once  forbade  me  to 
speak  of  this  matter,  and  I  have  obeyed  your  wishes  while 
my  heart  was  breaking."  Here  Ronald  paused  and  looked 
earnestly  at  Elsie  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Elsie  had  regarded  him  intently  while  he  was  talking. 
"  Poor  Ronald  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  and  have  you  indeed  suf- 
fered so  ? " 

"Suffered!"  exclaimed  Ronald,  "no  one  ever  suffered 
more  than  I  do.  Oh,  Elsie,  think  of  my  affliction  and  less 
of  your  own.  I  offer  you  a  life  of  love  and  happiness.  Do 
not  throw  away  your  existence  in  cold  asceticism,  mourning 
over  one  who  is  happy  in  heaven,  but  give  a  small  portion 
of  your  heart  to  me,  who  will  win  the  whole  of  it  by  a  life 
of  such  devotion  as  you  never  dreamed." 

"  Oh,  Ronald,"  said  Elsie,  "  you  ask  too  much  of  me.  I 
have  no  heart  to  give,  for  it  is  buried  in  the  grave  with  Ar- 


296 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


thur.  I  am  very  much  attached  to  you,  but  could  never 
love  you  as  I  loved  Arthur.  I  should  consider  myself  guilty 
of  sacrilege  if  I  loved  one  man  while  mourning  another.  Oh> 
no,  let  it  be  as  it  is,  my  friend  and  comforter." 

"  Elsie,"  said  Ronald,  "  this  day  decides  my  fate.  If  you 
reject  my  love  now  after  all  my  devotion  and  sympathy  I 
shall  go  to  seek  my  death,  and  care  not  how  it  comes.  I  am 
offered  a  commission  in  a  regiment  going  to  India,  and 
shall  accept  it.  Whatever  befalls  me,  with  my  last  breath  I 
shall  call  your  name  and  bless  you." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Elsie,  "go  and  leave  me  weighed 
down  with  grief  and  with  no  one  with  whom  to  exchange  a 
word  of  sympathy  !  You  will  not  be  so  cruel ;  it  is  con- 
trary to  your  nature." 

Ronald  saw  his  advantage,  and  quickly  made  the  most 
of  it. 

"Dear  Elsie,"  he  said,  "my  future  lies  in  your  hands, 
and  yet,  although  not  called  upon  to  make  the  least  sacrifice, 
you  hesitate  to  make  my  happiness  complete.  I  should  die 
a  thousand  deaths  if  I  were  to  continue  here  hoping  for 
your  love  and  seeing  you  every  day  yielding  more  and  more 
to  this  sentiment  which  has  taken  such  possession  of  you 
that  you  are  insensible  to  reason.  Better  for  me  that  I 
go  at  once  as  far  away  as  possible.  The  excitement  of 
an  active  military  career  will  help  to  still  the  painful 
throbbings  of  my  heart.  The  best  cure  for  that  honest  heart's 
complaint  will  be  a  bullet  to  quiet  it  forever." 

Elsie  shuddered.  "  Ronald,"  she  said,  "  do  not  push  me 
too  hard.  I  can  not  part  with  you,  for  I  have  no  other 
friend  with  whom  I  could  commune.  Give  me  a  little  time 
to  consider  this  matter  and  find  out  what  is  right  for  me  to 
do.  Give  me  six  months,  and  until  the  expiration  of  that 
time  do  not  again  broach  the  subject." 

"  Six  months  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  by  that  time  I  shall  be  in 
my  grave.  The  last  few  months  have  almost  killed  me  as 
it  is,  and  I  could  not  stand  such  another  ordeal.  Just  think, 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  297 

Elsie,  for  a  moment,  of  the  reasonableness  of  my  request. 
Marry  me  and  have  with  you  always  one  who  will  sympa- 
thize in  every  act  of  your  life,  who  will  love  and  honor 
with  you  the  memory  of  Arthur.  I  will  raise  a  monument 
to  Arthur,  inscribed  with  a  declaration  of  his  innocence, 
and  will  defy  the  world  to  prove  him  otherwise." 

Elsie  rose,  and  clasped  her  hands.  "You  once  told  me 
there  was  a  man  living  whom  you  believed  could  prove 
Arthur's  innocence.  Go  and  find  that  man  and  let  me  have 
that  one  solace  before  I  die.  I  know  Arthur  is  innocent,  but 
the  world  does  not  know  it.  You  shall  have  my  prayers  for 
your  happiness." 

That  would  have  been  very  poor  satisfaction  to  Ronald 
who  wanted  Elsie  herself,  not  her  prayers. 

"  Dear  Elsie,"  he  said,  "  it  will  require  time  to  find  that 
man.  I  have  employed  detectives,  and  have  hopes  of  bring- 
ing him  to  justice,  but  I  must  give  an  answer  soon  whether 
I  will  accept  the  commission  in  the  army.  If  I  lose  that 
chance  I  shall  not  readily  have  another.  But  once  married 
to  you  I  shall  have  no  emulation  beyond  your  love,  and  we 
can  devote  our  lives  to  proving  Arthur's  innocence  and  in 
hunting  down  the  wretch  who  betrayed  him.  If  I  go  to 
the  East  Indies  it  will  grieve  my  poor  mother  dreadfully, 
and  should  I  die  there  it  would  break  her  heart.  Is  it  such 
a  sacrifice  on  your  part  to  marry  me  that  you  would  rather 
wreck  a  whole  family  than  unite  your  life  with  mine  ?  Oh, 
Elsie,  in  after  years  when  I  am  buried  among  the  thousands 
who  are  killed  in  battle,  or  fall  by  disease  in  an  unhealthy 
climate,  your  reflections  will  be  bitter  indeed  when  thinking 
that  one  word  from  you  would  have  prevented  so  much 
misery.  Only  give  me  hope  if  you  can  not  now  love  me  as  a 
woman  should  love  her  husband.  I  will  devote  myself  to 
you  in  such  a  manner  that  you  will  eventually  give  me  your 
whole  heart.  Think,  Elsie,  what  a  weary  road  you  would 
travel  through  life  with  no  one  to  sympathize  or  care  for  you. 
Yours  is  not  a  nature  to  live  without  sympathy.     Think  of 


298  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

your  father  in  his  declining  years  pining  away  at  the  des- 
olate and  unnatural  life  you  will  be  leading." 

By  this  time  Elsie  was  quite  overcome.  She  held  up  her 
hands.  ^'  Stop,  Ronald  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  do  not  break  my 
heart.  I  am  selfish,  but  you  can  not  know  what  I  feel.  Let 
me  have  time  to  think  and  to  confer  with  my  father.  Come 
to  me  in  a  month  from  to-day  and  I  will  give  you  an  answer." 
So  saying  she  rose  and  walked  toward  the  house,  while 
Ronald  was  transported  with  joy. 

*'  Was  ever  woman  in  such  humor  won  ? "  he  muttered, 
*'  and  I  have  won  her  as  sure  as  the  sun  shines.'* 

Elsie  went  immediately  to  her  father,  whom  she  found  in 
his  study  and  in  very  low  spirits.  He  had  long  been  hoping 
that  Ronald's  attentions  to  Elsie  would  result  in  their  union, 
and  could  not  bring  himself  to  approve  of  her  unnatural  life 
in  devoting  herself  to  the  care  of  Mrs.  Merton,  fearing  that 
the  world  v/ould  connect  her  name  with  that  of  Arthur  the 
convict. 

Mr.  Vernon  raised  his  eyes  and  smiled  when  he  saw  the 
being  he  loved  best  on  earth.  "  My  darling,"  he  said,  "  I 
was  thinking  of  you,  but  for  that  matter,  I  am  always  think- 
ing of  you  ;  but  you  look  pale  and  sad.  I  hope  Mrs.  Merton 
is  no  worse." 

*' No,  dear  papa,"  replied  Elsie,  ''but  I  am  a  cruel,  self- 
ish creature,  who  comes  to  ask  your  advice." 

The  rector  opened  his  eyes,  but  listened  patiently  while 
Elsie  related  the  particulars  of  her  recent  interview  with 
Ronald.  When  she  had  concluded,  Mr.  Vernon  pondered 
for  a  moment,  and  then  said  : 

"Elsie,  darling,  there  is  one  person  whom  you  do  not 
appear  to  have  considered  in  this  matter — that  is  yourself. 
Your  high  sense  of  the  duty  you  owe  to  the  memory  of  Ar- 
thur has  blinded  you  to  other  things.  Arthur  is  dead,  and 
beyond  the  influence  of  any  good  that  one  may  attempt  to 
do  for  him.  When  his  soul  left  this  earth  it  went  to  a  place 
of  peace  and  rest,  where  it  takes  no  heed  of  the  cares  of  this 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


299 


world.  Common  sense  will  tell  you,  that  if  the  soul  could 
see  one  thing  on  earth  it  could  see  all,  and  how  unhappy  it 
would  be  in  heaven  to  know  of  the  misery  existing  among 
those  once  loved.  When  the  soul  leaves  us,  Elsie,  it  is  done 
with  earth,  and  we  should  not  let  our  recollection  of  the  dead 
run  into  selfishness,  but  should  do  our  allotted  duty  cheer- 
fully, and  try  to  give  happiness  to  the  living.  You  were 
fonder  of  Ronald  Pentland  than  any  one  except  Arthur  ;  he 
is  essential  to  your  happiness  owing  to  your  mutual  sympa- 
thy for  the  one  you  have  lost.  That  bond  will  make  you  a 
happy  pair,  and  you  will  not,  in  after  life,  be  harassed  with 
pain,  perhaps  remorse,  for  having  driven  him  to  exile,  per- 
haps to  death." 

"  Oh,  papa  !  "  exclaimed  Elsie,  "  I  can  hear  no  more — 
you  are  right,  I  am  too  selfish  ;  but  do  you  think  if  Arthur 
could  know  he  would  approve  ?  " 

"He  can  not  know,"  answered  the  rector;  "therefore  all 
speculations  on  the  subject  are  useless.  "We  must  think  of 
the  interests  of  the  living.  To  see  you  married  to  Ronald 
would  make  me  happy  and  lengthen  my  days.  Had  you 
ever  been  married  to  Arthur  it  would  have  been  more  suit- 
able to  hold  the  sentiments  you  now  profess.  You  would 
have  been  knit  together  by  God's  ordinances." 

"  May  God  give  me  strength  to  know  what  I  shall  do  un- 
der the  circumstances.  Papa,  your  happiness  shall  be  my 
first  care.  I  will  now  go  and  look  after  my  invalid.  There 
is  a  month  given  me  in  which  to  make  up  my  mind,  and  by 
the  end  of  that  time  I  may  become  reconciled  to  my  fate." 

"  I  predict  a  happy  fate  for  you,  my  daughter,"  said  the 
rector,  "if  you  comply  with  my  wishes."  Elsie  kissed  her 
father  fondly,  and  they  parted,  the  rector  happier  than  he 
had  been  for  two  years. 

The  month  passed  more  rapidly  than  Elsie  had  thought 
possible.  She  greatly  missed  her  accustomed  walks  with 
Ronald,  and  the  deep  sympathy  which  he  constantly  ex- 
pressed in  her  grief  for  the  loss  of  Arthur.     She  now  real- 


300  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

ized  that  the  principal  happiness  of  her  life  depended  on 
having  Ronald  near  to  sympathize  with  and  console  her, 
and  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  which  any  one  might 
have  foreseen  she  would  arrive  at. 

When  the  month  had  expired  Ronald  called  at  the  Mer- 
ton  residence  to  receive  his  answer.  Elsie  received  him  in 
the  parlor,  and  was  surprised  to  see  what  a  change  a  month 
had  made  in  him.  During  that  period  he  was  stretched  on 
the  rack  of  expectation,  for  he  feared  that,  when  away  from 
his  direct  influence,  Elsie  might  relapse  into  her  old  way  of 
thinking,  and  consider  it  her  duty  to  remain  faithful  to  the 
memory  of  Arthur  ;  so  when  he  presented  himself  to  Elsie, 
Ronald  looked  worn  and  haggard. 

"Poor  Ronald,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  hope  you  have  not 
suffered  on  my  account." 

"  I  could  not  suffer  so  on  account  of  any  one  else,"  re- 
plied Ronald.  "  I  have  come  to-day,  dear  Elsie,  to  learn 
my  fate  ;  do  not  condemn  me  to  an  eternal  exile ;  think  of 
the  power  for  good  or  evil  you  have  in  your  hands,  and  may 
God  make  you  merciful." 

Elsie  extended  her  hand.  ''  Take  it,  Ronald,"  she  said, 
"  although  unworthy  of  such  love  as  yours  ;  but  it  will  be  a 
true  hand,  and  may  you  forget  that  I  ever  caused  you  pain 
or  sorrow." 

Ronald  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  Elsie  with  joy  de- 
picted in  every  lineament,  and  then  clasped  her  to  his  breast. 

Elsie  blushed  and  shrunk  from  his  embrace,  for  she  did 
not  expect  quite  so  much  enthusiasm.  She  was  content 
with  her  action,  though  tears  came  to  her  eyes  at  the  thought 
that,  in  joining  herself  to  Ronald,  she  had  weakened  the  tie 
that  bound  her  to  Arthur's  memory. 

That  was  the  betrothal  of  Ronald  and  Elsie.  They 
talked  matters  over  quietly,  and  Ronald,  after  describing 
the  anguish  his  mind  had  undergone,  persuaded  Elsie  to 
name  an  early  day  for  their  marriage.  She  had  made  a 
sacrifice  in  accepting  him,  and  it  mattered  little  to  her  when 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  301 

the  ceremony  took  place.  She  named  that  day  two  months, 
which  was  her  mother's  birthday,  to  which  Ronald  assented, 
although  two  months  seemed  a  very  long  time  to  him. 

When  he  parted  from  Elsie  Ronald  went  to  his  mother, 
and  informed  her  of  the  happy  news.  He  then  sought  Mr. 
Vernon  to  obtain  his  consent  which  the  rector  was  only  too 
delighted  to  give. 

Ronald  resolved  that  he  would  devote  his  life  to  Elsie, 
so  that  he  would  drive  away  all  regret  for  her  lost  Arthur, 
and  no  doubt  he  was  sincere  in  his  intentions,  for  his  pas- 
sion for  Elsie  was  the  absorbing  one  of  his  soul.  He  had 
committed  a  great  crime  to  obtain  possession  of  her,  and 
now  proposed  to  rescue  the  name  of  Arthur  from  disgrace 
by  fixing  on  Bill  Briggs  the  crime  of  the  robbery,  if  he  could 
do  so  without  danger  to  himself. 

There  was  great  joy  in  the  houses  of  the  Yernons  and 
the  Pentlands,  but  Elsie  determined  to  say  nothing  to  Mrs. 
Merton  about  her  marriage  until  after  the  ceremony  had 
taken  place. 

About  this  time,  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Merton's  younger 
sister  died,  and,  having  no  children,  and  being  without 
means,  it  was  decided  to  bring  her  to  Woodlawn,  the  sanc- 
tion of  the  mill-owner  having  first  been  obtained.  About 
two  weeks  after  Elsie  was  betrothed,  the  young  woman  ar- 
rived, much  to  Mrs.  Merton's  delight.  A  new  pleasure  was 
opened  to  the  invalid,  who  made  her  sister  sit  by  her  and 
listen  to  her  talk  about  Arthur  and  his  expected  arrival. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

In  due  time,  a  full  pardon  was  sent  for  Arthur  Merton 
by  the  Home  Office,  and  Eustis  Ferris  and  Arthur  deter- 
mined to  go  by  the  same  steamer  to  England,  taking  the  old 
man  with  them.  Before  sailing,  Eustis  called  at  the  Mel- 
bourne Bank,  and  saw  the  cashier,  who  was  still  at  his  post, 


302  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

though  somewhat  aged,  after  so  many  years.  After  a  little 
conversation,  Eustis  asked  him  if,  many  years  ago,  the  bank 
had  not  suffered  a  great  loss  by  the  robbery  of  gold  on  de- 
posit. 

The  cashier  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said  :  "  Yes, 
just  before  you  came  to  us.  We  kept  the  matter  secret, 
fearing  that  it  would  prevent  the  miners  from  bringing  their 
dust  to  us,  for  they  are  a  set  of  men  easily  frightened.  We 
tried  every  means  to  ascertain  at  the  time  of  the  robbery, 
but  never  succeeded  in  finding  a  trace.  The  gold  left  here 
in  boxes,  sealed  under  my  inspection,  arriving  in  England 
with  seals  intact,  and  we  could  never  account  for  the  loss. 
Up  to  that  time,  we  had  shipped  millions  to  England  with- 
out loss,  but  making  good  that  robbery  almost  caused  our 
suspension." 

"  Did  you  ever  suspect  any  one  ?  "  inquired  Ferris. 

"  No,  we  did  not  know  whom  to  suspect." 

"  What  became  of  Kirby  Brush,  your  former  porter }  " 
said  Ferris. 

*'Why,"  said  the  cashier,  "he  left  us  to  return  to  Eng- 
land some  time  before  the  robbery  was  discovered." 

''  Did  you  ever  suspect  him  ? "  said  Eustis. 

"  I  would  be  as  likely  to  suspect  the  directors  of  the 
bank.  Why  he  was  as  honest  a  fellow  as  ever  lived,  and  we 
had  every  confidence  in  him." 

"  The  trouble  was  you  trusted  him  too  much,"  said  Fer- 
ris. He  then  told  the  story  which  had  been  related  by  the 
old  convict. 

When  Eustis  had  finished,  the  cashier  shook  his  head, 
saying :  "I  do  not  see  how  that  could  be  done  ;  your  in- 
former must  have  dreamed  it  all." 

"We  can  soon  find  out,"  said  Eustis,  "for  the  robbers 
must  have  left  some  marks  of  their  engineering.  Let  us  go 
into  the  gold-vault  with  a  pick-axe,  rope,  and  shovel,  and 
convince  ourselves  whether  this  tale  is  true  or  not." 

The  cashier  directed  the  articles  to  be  brought,  and  they 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  303 

descended  to  the  cellar,  where  Ferris  at  once  recognized 
the  place  from  the  description  given  by  the  old  convict. 
There  were  the  stone  floor,  the  iron  plating  overhead,  and 
the  heavy  stone  slabs  on  the  sides  of  the  room.  There,  also, 
was  the  fireplace,  with  its  great  slab,  which  the  old  man  had 
described  as  the  key  to  the  whole  mystery. 

''Bring  a  lever,"  said  Ferris,  to  the  man  who  carried  the 
tools,  "and  insert  it  between  the  hearthstone  and  the 
bricks."  This  was  done,  but  the  stone  refused  to  move 
even  with  their  united  efforts. 

"  Tear  away  the  bricks,  and  get  another  lever ;  there  is  a 
heavy  weight  attached  to  the  stone,"  said  Eustis.  "  No 
simple  hearthstone  could  resist  such  a  force  as  that." 

The  implements  required  were  soon  brought,  and  the 
stone  pried  up,  when  four  jack-screws  fell  to  the  bottom  of 
an  excavation  which  extended  under  the  foundation  of  the 
bank  where  the  passage  had  been  stopped  up  with  earth. 

"  What  do  you  think  now  ?  "  inquired  Eustis  of  the 
cashier, 

"  Seeing  is  believing,"  said  the  latter.  "  It  was  a  cun- 
ningly devised  scheme.  And  Kirby  Brush,  you  say,  did 
this  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Eustis,  "Kirby  Brush,  and  it  is  in  your  power 
to  regain  your  own,  for  when  I  left  England,  Brush  was  a 
large  mill-owner,  and  rolling  in  wealth.  He  feels  so  secure 
that  he  will  never  dream  of  running  away,  and  you  can  lay 
hands  upon  him  at  any  time."  Ferris  then  gave  the  aston- 
ished cashier  an  account  of  the  life  of  Kirby  Brush,  alias 
John  Merton,  and  told  him  that  he  was  going  direct  to  Eng- 
land, for  the  purpose  of  exposing  the  man.  The  cashier 
then  determined  to  consult  the  bank  authorities,  and  have 
a  detective  sent  with  power  to  arrest  the  bank-robber,  all  of 
which  was  arranged  the  following  day,  and  a  few  days  later 
the  party  started  on  the  P.  &  O.  steamer. 

In  eight  weeks  they  arrived  at  Southampton,  and  con- 
tinued on  to  London,  where  they  spent  two  days,  and  then, 


304  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

with  the  exception  of  the  detective,  who  remained  over  to 
communicate  with  Scotland  Yard,  took  the  train  on  Satur- 
day morning,  and  proceeded  to  the  nearest  point  to  Wood- 
lawn. 

Some  months  had  passed  since  John  Merton  had  been 
at  Woodlawn.  His  visits  were  very  unfrequent,  and  his 
presence  in  the  house  had  always  a  bad  effect  upon  his  wife. 
It  took  several  days  for  her  to  recover  from  these  visits. 
When  Elsie  was  there,  Julia  always  received  Mr.  Merton  in 
her  presence.  There  was  something  about  Elsie  that  cowed 
the  manufacturer,  and  he  never  remained  long,  but  Elsie 
had,  within  the  last  two  weeks,  been  much  with  her  father, 
who  was  ailing.  Mrs.  Merton  had  her  sister  with  her,  who 
was  a  loving  nurse. 

On  this  Saturday  Elsie  had  just  left  Woodlawn  when 
Merton  arrived.  Ascertaining  this  fact,  Merton  went  imme- 
diately to  his  wife's  apartments.  As  he  entered,  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton was  sitting  at  the  window  with  her  sister,  watching  a  ship 
carrying  a  white  flag  at  the  fore.  "  My  dear  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
"  that  is  Arthur's  ship  ;  I  know  the  signal  he  promised  to 
make  and  I  shall  see  him  to-day,  for  I  dreamed  last  night 
that  he  had  arrived  and  brought  with  him  a  friend  that  I  have 
not  seen  for  years.  You  remember  Eustis  Ferris,  sister  ? 
Well,  he  and  Arthur  are  on  board  that  ship  and  we  will  see 
them  to-day  or  to-morrow." 

It  had  been  months  since  Mrs.  Merton  had  seen  her  hus- 
band and  she  was  not  thinking  of  seeing  him,  when  the  door 
opened  and  he  stood  within  the  room  and  heard  her  last  re- 
mark. He  was  enraged  and  could  not  restrain  that  omi- 
nous snap  of  the  jaws  which  resounded  through  the  room. 
Julia  looked  frightened  and  the  color  left  her  cheeks,  while 
her  sister  sprung  from  her  chair  and  placed  herself  in  front 
of  Mrs.  Merton  as  if  to  protect  her. 

"  This  is  the  kind  of  treachery  I  meet  with  in  you,"  Mer- 
ton shouted  to  the  sister,  "  encouraging  that  insane  woman 
to  talk  of  her  worthless  lover,  who  is  now  paying  the  pen- 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  305 

alty  of  his  crimes  in  Australia.  I  have  come  to  inquire 
into  the  accounts  of  this  house.  The  expenses  have  increased 
over  one  third  since  your  arrival.  Now,  pack  your  boxes 
and  go,  and  if  I  ever  see  you  on  these  grounds  again  I  will 
bring  a  suit  against  you  for  trespass." 

Mrs.  Merton  placed  her  hands  before  her  eyes  to  shut 
out  the  sight  of  the  man  she  hated,  and  screamed  :  "  Go 
away  and  never  let  me  see  you  again.  Arthur  will  be  here 
to-day  and  he  will  drive  you  from  the  house." 

Julia's  sister  did  not  quail  before  the  appearance  of  Mer- 
ton, but  faced  him  boldly,  saying  :  "  You  see  how  your  pres- 
ence affects  my  sister ;  leave  the  room  or  I  will  call  for 
assistance." 

Merton  knew  that  there  was  no  man  nearer  than  the  sta- 
bles, and  felt  that  he  could  do  as  he  pleased  with  these  two 
women.  Rushing  forward,  he  seized  his  sister-in-law  by  the 
arm,  thrust  her  against  the  wall,  and  she  fell  screaming  to 
the  floor,  while  Mrs.  Merton  shouted  from  the  window  : 
*'  Help  !  he  is  murdering  us." 

The  maid  who  had  shown  Merton  to  the  room  ran  for 
aid  and  coming  down  to  the  porch,  saw  three  men  who,  hear- 
ing the  outcry,  were  hastening  toward  the  house.  "Oh, 
gentlemen,  master  is  murdering  mistress!"  she  exclaimed, 
"  come  and  help  her  !  " 

Eustis  Ferris  was  in  the  lead,  Arthur  following  closely, 
while  the  old  man  came  along  as  fast  as  possible.  The  girl 
put  her  hand  on  the  knob  to  open  the  chamber  door,  but 
finding  it  locked,  cried  out :  "  Oh,  gentlemen,  burst  the  door; 
he  is  murdering  them  both  !  " 

It  did  not  take  long  to  force  an  entrance,  and  Eustis  Fer- 
ris seized  Merton  by  the  throat,  throwing  him  heavily  to 
the  floor  where  he  lay  for  a  moment  stunned.  Julia  sat 
gasping  for  breath  and  ejaculating,  in  plaintive  tones  :  "  Oh ! 
Arthur,  Arthur,  save  us  !  " 

"  I  am  here,  dear  mother,"  Arthur  cried,  clasping  her  in 
his  arms.  "  Your  son  is  here  to  take  care  of  you,  and  no 
20 


3o6 


ARTHUR  MERTON, 


one  shall  harm  you.     That  wretch  my  father  shall  be  ban- 
ished from  here  forever." 

Julia  stopped  at  the  sound  of  Arthur's  voice,  looked 
into  his  face,  then  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  clung 
to  him  as  if  she  would  hold  him  forever.  "  At  last !  At 
last  !  "  she  cried,  *'  never  more  to  part !  Oh,  God,  I  thank 
you  for  this  day  !  I  feared  he  might  never  return."  And  ex- 
hausted with  her  emotions  she  fainted  away. 

During  this  time  Eustis  Ferris  stood  over  Merton's  pros- 
trate form  to  keep  him  from  rising.  "  Still  at  his  old  tricks, 
Mr.  Ferris,"  said  the  old  man.  "  We  are  just  in  time  to  cir- 
cumvent him.  Don't  let  him  escape.  The  devil  will  get  his 
own.     Was  ever  juster  retribution  than  this  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Eustis,  "  never.  But  I  wish  the  detectives 
had  come  with  us.  I  fear  they  have  gone  to  Lyneham  ex- 
pecting to  find  Merton  at  the  mills." 

Merton  heard  these  words  and  struggled  to  rise.  "  Scoun- 
drel," said  Ferris,  "face  your  accusers  !  "  and  taking  him  by 
the  collar  he  placed  him  upon  his  feet. 

John  Merton  was  a  powerful  man  and  might,  perhaps, 
have  escaped,  but  in  his  dazed  condition,  with  three  men  op- 
posed to  him  and  perhaps  many  more  outside,  he  felt  that 
a  struggle  would  be  useless.  He  glared  at  them  like  a 
tiger,  shuddering  to  think  of  the  punishment  in  store  for 
him. 

"Do  you  know  me?  "  said  Eustis.  "I  am  the  man  you 
sent  to  Australia  years  ago  on  the  plea  that  I  had  committed 
a  forgery." 

"  And  do  you  know  Kirby  Brush  ? "  said  the  old  man, 
"  whom  you  sent  to  prison  and  who  helped  you  rob  the  Mel- 
bourne Bank  }  " 

"  Do  you  know  me,  Arthur,  the  son  you  allowed  to  be 
imprisoned  ?  I  have  come  to  redress  my  mother's  wrongs, 
and  shall  deal  with  you  as  a  scoundrel,  not  as  a  father." 

"  Has  hell  broke  loose  ?  "  shouted  Merton.  "  Am  I  in 
the  infernal  regions  ?     Is  this  a  delusion  or  a  reality  ?     You 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  ^q-j 

are  mistaken  if  you  think  you  have  entrapped  John  Mer- 
ton.  My  purse  is  deep,  my  arm  is  long.  Kirby  Brush,  I 
have  still  an  indictment  against  you  that  will  send  you  back 
to  prison.  Ferris,  your  forgery  still  stands  against  you  ;  get 
back  to  Australia  before  you  are  laid  by  the  feet.  Arthur, 
you  are  an  escaped  convict  and  can  give  no  evidence  against 
me.  I  defy  you  all !  "  and  with  that  he  made  for  the  door 
and  might  have  escaped  had  not  three  stable-men  appeared 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  They  had  been  summoned  by  the 
maid  and  told  to  await  orders  there. 

Merton  could  make  no  headway  against  this  force,  and 
was  seized  and  securely  tied  hand  and  foot.  Determined 
that  he  should  not  escape,  the  old  man  watched  the  prisoner 
narrowly,  upbraiding  him  with  his  crimes  and  telling  him 
of  the  pleasure  with  which  he  would  see  the  detectives  arrest 
him  and  take  him  to  Australia  for  trial,  the  place  where  he 
was  so  fond  of  sending  other  people.  "Before  I  left  there," 
said  the  old  man,  "  I  showed  the  bank  authorities  the  tunnel 
you  dug.  The  jack-screws  were  there  just  as  you  left  them, 
and  I  am  going  back  to  testify  against  you,  and  Kirby 
Brush,  alias  John  Merton,  alias  I  don't  know  what,  will  be 
locked  up  and  I'll  be  there  to  see  it.  And,  best  of  all,"  con- 
tinued the  old  man,  "  Eustis  Ferris  will  marry  his  early 
love,  and  your  son  Arthur  will  come  into  possession  of  your 
money  after  he  has  paid  the  bank  what  you  stole  from 
them." 

At  this  Merton  fairly  howled,  and  snapped  his  jaws  like 
a  captive  wolf. 

Eustis  Ferris  had  been  so  busy  securing  Merton  that  he 
had  had  no  time  to  look  at  Julia,  but  when  he  returned  to 
her  apartment,  the  woman  he  loved  was  murmuring  Ar- 
thur's name,  and  talking  of  him.  At  length  she  sighed 
deeply,  opened  her  eyes,  and  seeing  Arthur  leaning  over 
her,  smiled. 

"  Joy  never  kills,"  said  the  nurse  ;  "  she  will  be  all  right, 
presently." 


3o8  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

Julia  took  Arthur's  hand  in  hers,  saying  :  "  Oh  !  my 
dear  boy,  why  did  you  stay  away  so  long  ?  I  have  wished  so 
much  to  see  you !  "  She  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
covered  his  face  with  kisses. 

Eustis  Ferris  stood  looking  at  Julia  like  one  dazed,  sur- 
prised to  see  how  little  time  had  affected  her  appearance. 
Although  she  was  now  forty-two,  she  did  not  look  more  than 
thirty,  and  with  the  color  in  her  cheeks  would  appear  still 
younger.  Eustis  dreaded  the  effect  of  speaking  to  her,  as 
she,  no  doubt,  supposed  him  dead,  so  he  kept  in  the  back- 
ground, to  avoid  being  seen. 

While  caressing  her  son,  Julia  suddenly  noticed  his  white 
hair.  "  Why,  Arthur  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  what  is  this } 
What  do  these  white  hairs  mean?  " 

'*Itis  the  fashion  in  France,"  was  his  reply.  "But  if 
you  do  not  like  it,  it  will  come  all  right  again  in  a  short 
time." 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  exclaimed,  "do  not  change  it;  I  like  you 
as  you  are.  Your  face  framed  in  that  white  hair  looks 
handsomer  than  ever.  Elsie  will  be  so  proud  of  you,  and 
she  longs  so  much  for  you." 

Then  Julia  saw  Eustis  Ferris,  and  trembled,  as  she  said : 
"  Arthur,  who  is  that  ?  Am  I  dreaming,  or  is  this  a  phan- 
tom?" 

"No,  Julia,"  said  Eustis,  advancing,  and  taking  her  hand, 
"  I  am  no  phantom,  but  the  friend  of  your  youth,  returned 
after  years  of  sorrow  to  watch  over  you  for  the  rest  of 
your  life." 

Julia  threw  her  arms  about  Eustis's  neck.  She  could  not 
resist  the  impulse,  and  would  have  done  the  same  had  the 
whole  world  been  present.  "  My  God  !  "  she  cried,  "  at 
last,  at  last,  he  has  forgiven  me  !  " 

"  It  has  killed  her  !  "  he  cried,  in  anguish.  "  And  have 
I  seen  her  once  more  only  to  witness  her  death  !  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  nurse.  "  Leave  her  to  me,  and  I'll 
soon  bring  her  around." 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


309 


Julia  soon  recovered.  Her  first  word  was  "  Eustis,"and 
he  hastened  to  her  side,  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Now,  I  am  willing  to  die,"  said  Julia.  "  I  have  seen  you, 
and  am  happy,  but,  oh,  what  years  of  misery  have  passed 
since  last  we  met  !  I  can  see  in  your  gray  hair  that  you, 
too,  have  suffered.  I  know  that  you  have  forgiven  me,  and 
that  you  have  brought  my  boy  back  to  me  again,  and  may 
God  bless  you  for  that !  I  do  not  know  how  long  it  has 
been  since  I  saw  him,  for  I  have  not  been  able  to  take  ac- 
count of  time,  but  it  has  appeared  like  an  age  to  me,"  and 
tears  fell  from  her  eyes.  Then  she  arose  and  sat  by  the 
window,  with  Eustis  by  her  side,  and  thus  they  talked  for 
hours,  telling  each  other  the  events  that  had  taken  place 
since  they  parted. 

Julia's  sister,  flung  against  the  wall  by  the  brutal  Mer- 
ton,  had  fallen  upon  the  floor,  where,  amid  the  confusion,  she 
remained  for  the  time  unnoticed,  but  when  she  recovered 
her  senses,  she  sought  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  where  she 
seated  herself  in  an  easy-chair.  Arthur  had  just  entered 
the  apartment  when  his  aunt  beckoned  to  him,  and  he  hast- 
ened to  her,  though  he  had  not  recognized  the  pale  woman 
who  called  him. 

"Arthur,"  she  said,  "  have  you  no  word  of  greeting  for 
your  aunt  May  .''     Is  it  possible  you  have  forgotten  me  ?" 

Arthur  kissed  his  aunt  affectionately.  She  was  dressed 
in  deep  mourning,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  a  widow. 
"Your  dear  mother,"  she  said,  "has  not  been  herself  since 
you  left  home.  She  knows  nothing  of  what  has  befallen 
you,  for  Providence  has  for  a  long  time  deprived  her  of 
reason,  and  she  has  been  as  a  child.  She  knew  nothing 
of  your  trial  and  punishment,  and  God  grant  she  never 
may.  She  thinks  you  have  been  traveling  all  this  time,  and 
has  been  looking  forward  anxiously  for  your  return  to  Eng- 
land that  you  might  marry  Elsie." 

"  Poor  Elsie,"  said  Arthur,  "  how  she  must  have  suf- 
fered !  " 


310 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


"  Yes,  Arthur,  she  has  grieved  over  you,  and  shown  her 
love  for  you  by  unremitting  attention  to  your  mother.  It  is 
through  her  watchfulness  that  Julia  has  so  much  improved. 
I  do  not  know  what  effect  this  late  excitement  may  have 
upon  her,  but  I  think  it  will  be  for  the  better.  See  how  co-" 
herently  she  is  talking  to  Mr.  Ferris.  She  is  telling  him 
the  events  of  her  life,  but  she  forgets  at  the  moment  that  the 
brute  Merton  is  in  existence,  and  is  only  conscious  that  she 
is  seated  once  more  with  the  man  from  whom  she  v/as 
parted  by  the  basest  fraud.  But,  Arthur,"  she  continued, 
*'  how  those  white  locks  become  you  !  " 

"  Dear  aunt,"  said  Arthur,  "  they  have  been  purchased 
through  much  misery.  Two  years  of  hard  labor  at  Millbank 
prison  and  my  transportation  to  Australia  almost  broke  my 
heart,  yet  through  that  transportation  my  innocence  was 
proved,  but  of  that  I  will  tell  you  some  other  time,  now,  tell 
me  of  Elsie." 

"  Oh  !  Arthur,  what  I  have  to  say  will  pain  you,  though 
Providence  seems  to  have  brought  you  here  just  in  time  to 
secure  your  happiness.  About  twelve  months  ago,  Ronald 
Pentland  received  a  letter  from  Australia,  announcing  that 
you  had  died  on  the  passage  out,  broken  down  with  despair 
and  the  hard  labor  you  had  undergone." 

"  Why  !  "  exclaimed  Arthur,  "  twelve  months  ago  I  was 
in  Millbank  prison  and  had  not  started  for  Australia !  " 

"You  did  not  die,  that  is  very  apparent,"  said  his  aunt, 
"but  every  one  here  thought  so.  Ronald  had  been  very 
kind  and  attentive  to  Elsie,  and  had  sympathized  with  her 
deeply  in  all  her  grief,  so  much  so  that  she  saw  him  every 
day,  just  to  have  the  pleasure  of  talking  about  you.  Then 
came  this  letter  to  Ronald  with  an  account  of  your  death, 
which  almost  killed  Elsie.  She  says  she  had  a  vision  in 
which  you  appeared  to  her  and  told  her  not  to  grieve,  that 
you  were  happy  in  heaven.  She  wept  for  days,  but  finally 
grew  calmer,  and  began  to  look  upon  your  death  as  a  release 
from  disgrace  and  pain.     Again  Ronald  came  to  her,  and 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


S^r 


showed  her  how  you  would  have  suffered  had  you  lived 
through  your  long  term  of  imprisonment.  He  was  unremit- 
ting in  his  attentions,  and  about  four  months  ago  proposed  to 
her.  She  would  not,  at  first,  listen  to  him,  but  her  father's 
prayers  and  those  of  Mrs.  Pentland  that  she  would  accept  the 
poor  fellow,  who  was  evidently  suffering  very  much  at  his  re- 
jection, prevailed,  and  she  consented  to  sacrifice  herself  to 
a  point  of  duty.  She  was  persuaded  that,  as  she  had 
shown  such  unselfishness  in  the  care  of  my  sister,  she 
should  continue  to  exhibit  those  noble  traits  of  character, 
and  marry  the  man  who  had  shown  such  sympathy  for  her 
troubles." 

"  The  scoundrel !  "  exclaimed  Arthur,  "  I  see  it  all  now  ! 
Bill  Briggs  described  how  the  villain  vrould  act.  Great 
God  !  am  I  too  late?" 

*'No,"  said  his  aunt,  "you  are  not  too  late  ;  they  are  to 
be  married  at  eight  o'clock  this  evening.  Oh,  Arthur,  for- 
give her,  for  she  was  so  pressed  by  all  about  her,  except 
your  mother  who  knew  nothing  about  the  intended  mar- 
riage, that  she  was  obliged  to  yield." 

"  Thank  God,  thank  God  !  "  he  said,  and  springing 
from  his  chair  he  rushed  to  where  his  mother  sat  with 
Ferris. 

"Come,  Mr.  Ferris,"  he  said,  excitedly,  "come  with  me. 
We  have  work  to  do.  Mother,  darling,"  kissing  her,  "  ex- 
cuse us  for  a  short  time.  I  have  information  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Ferris." 

"  Don't  leave  me,  dear  Arthur,"  said  his  mother,  clinging 
to  him.  "  Oh,  don't  leave  me  !  Fve  seen  nothing  of  you 
yet ;   don't  go."     The  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"  I  must,  mother,"  he  said,  struggling  to  free  himself, 
"my  happiness  in  life  depends  upon  it ;   Elsie  is  in  danger." 

"  Elsie  in  danger  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  then  go,  Arthur, 
at  once  and  save  her  from  harm  ;  for  she  loves  you  with  all 
her  heart  and  soul,"  She  released  her  boy  and  kissed  him 
again. 


312 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


He  seized  Ferris  by  the  arm,  saying,  "  Come,  we  have 
no  time  to  lose,"  and  they  left  the  room  together.  Arthur 
told  him  of  the  information  that  he  had  received  from  his 
aunt,  and  proposed  to  go  to  Squire  Pentland's,  beard  the 
lion  in  his  den,  and  stop  the  wedding. 

^'No,"  said  Ferris,  "leave  it  to  me,  and  I  will  so  ar- 
range it  that  Ronald  Pentland  will  be  overwhelmed  with 
shame." 

He  gave  Arthur  the  details  of  the  plan  they  were  to  carry 
out,  and  they  then  turned  their  attention  to  John  Merton, 
who  was  still  lying  on  the  floor  tied  hand  and  foot,  while  the 
old  man  stood  by  reproaching  him  with  the  crimes  he  had 
committed,  and  promising  him  the  same  punishment  he  had 
meted  out  to  others.  This  pleased  the  stable-men,  but  was 
not  so  much  enjoyed  by  the  victim.  It  was  greatly  to  Mer- 
ton's  relief  when  Mr.  Ferris  approached  and  asked  the  stable- 
men, "  Where  can  we  lock  this  man  up  until  the  detectives 
come  ? " 

'*  Well,  your  honor,"  said  one  of  them,  *'  there's  a  smoke- 
house just  forninst  the  stable  which  has  a  double  lock  and 
no  window,  barring  the  loopholes.  He'll  be  safe  enough 
there." 

''Well,  pick  him  up  and  carry  him  there,"  said  Eustis, 
which  they  proceeded  to  do,  laying  him  down  on  the  floor 
of  the  smoke-house. 

"Untie  his  feet,  but  keep  his  hands  fast,"  said  Ferris. 
*'  Now,  two  of  you  keep  watch  over  this  building,  and  do 
not  leave  it  until  my  return.     I  will  keep  the  keys." 

''And  I,"  said  the  old  man,  "will  stay  with  the  boys  and 
see  that  this  cunning  devil  does  not  outwit  them  ;  for,  if  I 
am  not  mistaken,  he  has  broken  out  of  jail  before." 

During  this  time  Arthur  did  not  leave  the  house.  He 
saw  his  father  carried  off  a  prisoner,  and  knew  that  he  would 
be  delivered  to  the  detectives  when  they  arrived,  but  raised 
no  voice  in  his  defense,  knowing  what  a  wretch  he  was. 
Arthur  "had  no  feelings  for  his  father  but  detestation,  and 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  313 

knew  that  the  law  must  take  Its  course.  When  Eustis  Ferris 
returned  with  the  keys  of  the  smoke-house  and  pronounced 
the  prisoner  secure  he  felt  a  sense  of  relief. 

''  Now,  Mr.  Ferris,"  said  Arthur,  "  let  us  arrange  to  pun- 
ish that  villain  Ronald  Pentland." 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

On  the  day  of  the  events  which  we  have  recorded  in  the 
preceding  chapter,  Eustis  Ferris  and  Arthur  Merton  went, 
at  seven  o'clock,  toward  the  church  of  St.  Paul's,  of  which 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Vernon  was  the  incumbent.  It  was  lovely 
June  weather,  and  nature  was  dressed  in  its  most  beauti- 
ful apparel.  The  trees  were  covered  with  luxuriant  foliage, 
the  rose  bushes  were  decked  with  the  choicest  roses,  and 
the  grass  was  spangled  with  numberless  flowers,  so  that  the 
ground  formed  a  carpet  into  which  was  interwoven  the 
brightest  colors.  At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  Elsie  and 
Ronald  were  to  be  united  in  marriage. 

Elsie  had  sought  to  postpone  the  trying  ordeal,  but  she 
was  overcome  by  the  importunities  of  her  friends,  and  after 
a  hard  struggle  with  her  feelings  consented  to  name  a  day 
on  which  she  would  marry  Ronald.  She  had  thought  the 
matter  over  after  she  had  consented  to  marry  him,  but  every 
day  only  convinced  her  that  she  was  committing  a  wrong  to 
the  memory  of  Arthur  which  she  would  live  to  repent.  Her 
only  consolation  was  the  knowledge  that  she  was  sacrificing 
herself  to  a  duty  which  she  owed  to  others.  Duty  was  the 
watchword  which  had  guided  her  through  life,  and  she  had 
made  this  sacrifice  for  the  friend  Arthur  loved  best  on  earth, 
and  the  one  who  would  sympathize  with  her  in  all  her  feel- 
ings for  her  dead  lover,  and  encourage  her  to  talk  of  him. 
Elsie  knew  so  little  of  the  world  that  she  never  supposed 
that  to  the  generality  of  women  a  live  husband  is  worth  a 


314  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

dozen  dead  lovers,  and  did  not,  therefore,  try  to  bury  her 
sentimental  ideas  as  soon  as  possible. 

From  the  day  of  her  engagement  to  Ronald  Elsie's  de- 
meanor changed.  She  was  not  at  all  like  the  happy  girl  who 
had  gained  the  man  of  her  choice.  She  stayed  constantly 
in  her  room  thinking  over  what  she  had  done.  She  no  longer 
cared  to  walk  with  Ronald,  but  preferred  to  go  with  her 
father,  giving  as  an  excuse  that  he  was  so  frail  and  wanted 
her  arm.  When  Ronald  complained  of  her  neglect  she  would 
say  :  ''  Never  mind,  Ronald  ;  when  v/e  are  married  I  will  be 
more  attentive  to  you,  but  nov/,  I  must  devote  myself  to  papa." 

She  took  no  interest  in  the  preparations  for  her  wedding, 
but  put  the  whole  matter  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Pentland,  with 
strict  injunctions  not  to  let  Mrs.  Merton  know  what  was  go- 
ing on ;  in  fact,  she  was  so  unhappy  that  she  did  not  seem 
to  care  for  anything  in  the  world.  She  even  neglected  her 
doves,  leaving  them  almost  entirely  to  the  housekeeper. 
Now  and  then  Ronald  would  accompany  her  and  her  father 
on  their  walks,  but  after  their  engagement  when  Ronald 
tried  to  turn  the  conversation  into  a  sentimental  channel, 
Elsie  shrunk  from  him. 

Ronald  groaned  over  this  state  of  affairs,  and  wondered 
if  it  would  last  his  lifetime  as  a  punishment  for  his  misdeeds. 
He  complained  to  his  mother  of  his  disappointment,  but 
she  would  say  :  "  Be  patient,  Ronald,  you  have  won  a  prize. 
Remember  that  a  coy  maiden  always  makes  the  most  lov- 
ing and  truest  wife.  When  Elsie  is  yours  you  will  have  no 
cause  to  complain." 

So  matters  went  on  until  the  wedding-day.  Elsie's  cos- 
tume was  laid  out  upon  the  bed ;  she  sat  musing  and  had 
almost  forgotten  that  there  was  such  a  being  as  Ronald  in 
the  world,  when  Mrs.  Pentland's  maid  entered  the  room  and 
said  that  her  mistress  had  sent  her  to  arrange  her  hair. 
Elsie  rose  with  a  sigh  and  put  herself  in  the  hands  of  the 
maid,  requesting  her  to  finish  her  work  with  as  little  reference 
to  her  as  possible.     All  the  time  she  was  being  dressed  her 


ARTHUR  MERTON.  315 

eyes  had  a  look  that  showed  that  her  thoughts  were  not  in 
the  matter  of  the  wedding  and  that  she  was  engaged  in  a 
task  which  was  irksome  to  her. 

When  Arthur  and  Eustis  Ferris  reached  the  church  the 
sexton  had  just  finished  lighting  it  up.  The  lamps  in  the 
body  of  the  church  were  few,  but  the  chancel  looked  very 
well,  four  large  lights  and  two  dozen  wax  candles  being  used 
to  illuminate  it,  casting  a  pleasant  light  upon  the  flowers 
that  were  strewed  about  the  altar  and  the  marriage  bell  made 
of  lilies,  white  roses,  and  orange  blossoms  which  hung  over 
the  spot  on  which  the  bride  and  groom  were  to  stand.  For 
a  country  church  the  arrangements  might  have  been  con- 
sidered superb,  and  as  the  sexton  eyed  it,  he  said  aloud  :  "  I 
never  saw  anything  prettier  than  this,  but  the  bride  is  so 
bonnie  that  she  deserves  it  all." 

The  sexton  was  about  to  walk  back  into  the  body  of  the 
church  when  he  was  accosted  by  two  gentlemen.  "We  are," 
said  Eustis,  "  friends  of  the  family  who  do  not  wish  to  be 
seen,  as  we  are  not  dressed  for  the  occasion  ?  Can  not  you 
give  us  a  place  near  the  chancel?  "  Putting  a  sovereign  in 
his  hand,  he  paused  for  an  answer. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  sexton  ;  "  come  with  me.  Here  is 
a  pew  with  a  pillar  at  the  end  of  it.  If  you  do  not  want  to 
be  seen  you  can  sit  here  and  see  the  bride  when  she  leaves 
the  church."  The  two  ensconced  themselves  behind  the 
stone  pillar  v/atching  unseen  the  persons  assembling  by  in- 
vitation in  the  church. 

In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  the  families  of  both  parties 
had  assembled,  including  the  grandfather  of  the  bride,  and 
every  one  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation  to  see  the  bride 
and  groom  enter.  Then  the  organ  commenced  a  soft  paean 
which  reverberated  through  the  church  while  the  groom  and 
his  best  man  entered  and  took  their  places  in  the  chancel 
and  the  Rev.  Rowley  Dimple,  the  officiating  clergy-man, 
with  prayer-book  in  hand,  stood  in  front  of  the  altar.  Elsie 
came  next  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  her  father,  half  a  dozen 


3i6  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

young  girls  following  her  as  attendants.  Ushers  were  in  the 
aisles  seating  the  guests,  and  the  general  appearance  of  the 
whole  scene  was  like  that  of  many  weddings  which  had  been 
celebrated  in  that  church. 

Elsie  and  her  father  are  before  the  clergymen,  the  groom 
steps  forward  and  takes  her  hand,  and  the  clergyman  com- 
mences his  prayer,  but,  oh  !  how  disappointed  was  every  one 
at  the  appearance  of  the  bride  !  Where  were  the  smiles  that 
should  have  shone  upon  her  lips  ?  Where  were  the  roses 
wont  to  bloom  upon  her  cheeks  ?  She  was  as  pale  as  death  ; 
her  mouth  was  drawn  down  as  if  she  were  in  pain,  and  those 
beautiful  eyes,  once  the  admiration  of  all  beholders,  were 
now  nearly  concealed  by  the  almost  closed  eyelids.  She 
tottered  as  she  walked  up  the  aisle  and  sobbed  convulsively 
as  she  approached  the  altar.  Her  poor  father  was  much  dis- 
tressed at  the  turn  affairs  had  taken  and  did  his  best  to  cheer 
her  up,  but  not  until  she  stood  in  the  chancel  did  Elsie  real- 
ize that  two  hundred  pairs  of  watchful  eyes  were  upon  her 
and  that  she  had  a  duty  to  perform  that  could  not  be  avoided. 
She  nerved  herself,  and  waited  for  the  minister  to  begin  the 
ceremony,  which  he  did  at  once  and  continued  until  he 
came  to  that  part  which  says  : 

"  If  any  man  can  show  just  cause  why  these  two  may  not 
lawfully  be  joined  together,  let  him  now  speak  or  hereafter 
forever  hold  his  peace." 

The  church  was  so  silent  that  one  could  hear  a  pin  drop, 
when  a  young  man  with  white  hair  stepped  from  behind  the 
pillar  where  he  and  Eustis  Ferris  had  remained  unobserved, 
and  laying  his  hand  on  Ronald  Pentland's  shoulder,  said,  in 
a  firm  voice  that  could  be  heard  all  over  the  church  :  "  I, 
;  Arthur  Merton,  forbid  this  marriage.  I  denounce  this  man 
"**  as  a  robber  and  a  villain  who  by  his  machinations  consigned 
me  to  prison.  Ronald  Pentland,  answer  to  the  indictment 
against  you  !  " 

When  Ronald  heard  Arthur's  voice  his  heart  sank  within 
him.     He  had  not  dreamed  of  harm  coming  to  him,  and  he 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


317 


felt  blessed  beyond  calculation  ;  his  future  happiness  with 
Elsie  seemed  assured.  When  Arthur  began  the  indictment 
of  his  crimes  he  reeled  like  a  man  struck  by  a  dagger,  gasped 
like  one  dying,  and  clutched  at  the  air.  For  a  moment  the 
idea  came  to  him  to  defy  his  accuser,  but  that  stalwart  form 
and  white  hair  were  too  much,  for  he  saw  at  a  glance  how  his 
once  loved  friend  must  have  suffered  in  mind  and  body  to 
have  become  so  stricken,  and  he  knew  that  he  could  expect 
no  mercy.  Those  who  witnessed  the  scene  had  never  before 
in  their  lives  seen  such  a  pitiful  face  as  Ronald's.  It 
looked  as  if  it  had  grown  old  in  an  instant  and  that  death 
was  standing  at  his  side. 

Arthur  stood  calmly  before  Ronald,  dressed  in  a  suit  of 
black  which  fitted  his  form  to  perfection.  The  white  hair 
gave  a  radiance  to  his  beauty,  but  the  stern  eye  and  com- 
pressed lip  showed  that  no  feelings  of  mercy  were  left  for 
his  former  friend.  Ronald  tried  to  speak,  but  Arthur 
pointed  to  the  church  door,  and  Ronald  turned  and  fled 
from  the  chancel.  Elsie  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  dazed  at 
hearing  Arthur's  voice,  and  then  her  gaze  fell  upon  Arthur. 
Her  first  impression  was  that  his  spirit  had  come  upon 
earth  to  condemn  her  for  her  faithlessness  to  his  memory. 
His  face  looked  to  her  like  that  of  an  angel,  and  his  white 
hair  like  an  aureola  surrounding  his  head.  She  threw  her 
arms  in  the  air,  and,  crying  out,  "  Arthur,  forgive  me,  I  did 
it  against  my  will,"  fell  fainting  to  the  floor. 

All  this  passed  in  a  moment,  and  immediately  there  was 
great  commotion  in  the  church.  The  people  stood  up  and 
craned  their  necks  to  see  what  was  going  on.  Squire  Pent- 
land  rose  in  his  pew,  with  flushed  face,  and,  shaking  his  fist 
at  Arthur,  cried  out,  excitedly  :  ''  You  were  tried  by  a  jury 
of  your  countrymen  and  found  guilty  of  robbery.  Escaped 
convict,  I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of — "  He  could  get  no 
further,  but  fell  back  in  his  pew,  and  blood  gushed  from  his 
mouth,  He  had  ruptured  a  blood-vessel,  and  the  people 
thought  him  dead. 


3i8  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

Mrs.  Pentland  went  into  hysterics,  and  every  one  tried 
to  render  assistance.  The  village  surgeon  was  the  calmest 
person  on  the  spot,  while  the  old  sexton  emptied  three  or 
four  jugs  of  water  on  the  first  persons  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact  in  his  desire  to  be  of  service.  Eustis  Feriis 
stepped  into  the  chancel  to  give  Arthur  support  if  he  re- 
quired any.  They  both  were  calm,  and  even  Elsie's  fainting 
did  not  move  Arthur.  Before  he  went  to  her  aid,  he  must 
know  why  she  was  standing  before  the  altar  with  the  man 
who  had  betrayed  him. 

Mr.  Vernon  saw  that  Elsie  was  only  in  a  faint,  and  called 
for  restoratives,  which  came  from  every  part  of  the  church. 
Ladies  took  Elsie  in  charge,  and  she  soon  began  to  revive, 
when  her  father  approached  Arthur,  and  said,  sternly  : 
"  How  could  you  devise  such  a  devilish  revenge  as  this  ? 
Why  not  have  prevented  this  scene  ?  Why  create  such  a 
scandal  ?     You  may  have  caused  my  daughter's  death  !  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  Mr.  Vernon,"  said  Arthur,  calmly, 
"  we  had  but  a  short  time  in  which  to  act.  In  the  second 
place,  the  crimes  of  Ronald  Pentland  have  been  so  great 
that  he  should  be  publicly  exposed  for  the  infamy  he  has 
brought  upon  me  and  was  about  to  bring  upon  you." 

"But,  Arthur,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  "how  came  you  here — 
you,  a  condemned  man,  sentenced  to  along  imprisonment  ?  " 

"  My  innocence  has  been  proved,"  said  Arthur,  proudly. 
"  I  have  a  full  pardon,  and  can  prove  that  Ronald  Pentland 
committed  the  crime  for  which  I  was  sentenced.  He  put  it 
upon  me  for  the  purpose  of  marrying  your  daughter.  Do 
you  think  that  an  innocent  man  would  have  fled  from  such 
a  charge  ?  " 

"  Father  in  Heaven,  I  thank  thee  for  averting  this  disgrace 
from  me  and  mine  !  "  said  Mr.  Vernon,  fervently.  "  There  is 
my  hand,  Arthur,  and  I  welcome  you  back  to  old  England." 

"  No,  Mr.  Vernon,"  replied  Arthur, ''  I  can  not  take  your 
hand  while  there  is  a  doubt  left  upon  your  mind.  Here  are 
the  papers  connected  with  my  case  ;  read  them  at  your  leis- 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


319 


ure,  and,  if  satisfied  in  all  respects,  send  for  me,  and  I  will 
come  to  you." 

"  But,  Arthur,"  said  the  rector,  "  you  will  go  to  Elsie  ? 
Oh  !  how  she  has  loved  you,  and  how  much  she  has  suf- 
fered !     She  heard  of  your  death  over  a  year  ago." 

"  Another  invention  of  Ronald  Pentland's,"  said  Arthur. 
"  And  yet  in  less  than  a  year  she  could  be  willing  to  marry 
another ! " 

"  Arthur,  she  loves  you  to-day  as  much  as  she  ever  did 
in  her  life.  Go  to  her  at  once,  and  let  her  eyes  rest  upon 
you  when  she  becomes  conscious.  Do  not  sacrifice  the  life 
of  my  child,  who  is  all  1  have  to  live  for.  I  will  read  your 
papers,  although  your  word  is  sufficient  with  me,  and  I  am 
satisfied  that  all  you  say  is  true.  It  was  for  my  sake  that 
Elsie  consented  to  this  alliance,  and,  thinking  you  dead,  I 
did  what  I  considered  was  best  to  prevent  her  fretting  her 
life  away.     I  implore  you,  Arthur,  go  and  save  my  child  !  " 

Arthur  needed  no  more  urging,  but  flew  to  Elsie's  side. 
She  was  just  on  the  point  of  recovery  from  her  swoon,  her 
closed  eyelids  were  quivering,  and  large  tears  stood  like  dew- 
drops  in  her  eyes,  and  rolled  down  her  pallid  cheeks,  while 
her  chest  heaved  convulsively  and  her  hands  nervously 
clutched  the  air.  Arthur  gazed  upon  the  face  he  loved  so 
well,  and  his  heart  ached  when  he  saw  the  marks  of  care 
which  time  had  produced.  He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips 
and  kissed  it,  when  she  awoke  with  a  start,  and  saw  him 
whom  she  had  supposed  dead  kneeling  by  her  side.  She 
gazed  at  him  intently  for  some  time,  and  when  he  said, 
"  Elsie,  dear,  don't  you  know  me  ?  "  raised  her  hand  and 
placed  it  upon  his  white  hair. 

"Is  this  what  you  wear  in  heaven,  Arthur?  "  she  said. 
"Am  I  dead,  and  joined  to  you,  there.-*  Oh!  thank  God, 
thank  God,  for  his  mercy  !  Now  that  you  are  an  angel,  will 
I  have  to  leave  you  again  .'*  Don't  leave  me,  Arthur,  I  have 
suffered  so  much,  so  much  !  "  and  she  sobbed  violently. 

"  Elsie,  darling,"  said  Arthur,  "  I  am  your  own  Arthur 


320 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


in  flesh  and  blood,  and  will  part  from  you  no  more.  I  am 
far  from  being  an  angel.  Look  up,  and  let  me  see  the  eyes  I 
have  so  dearly  loved.  I  am  free,  and  proved  innocent,  and 
come  to  bring  you  happiness."  Then  she  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  wept  upon  his  bosom. 

We  drop  a  veil  over  what  followed.  Let  the  good  people 
go  home  and  chatter  over  the  events  they  had  seen.  They 
had  been  promised  a  wedding,  and  had  witnessed  almost  a 
tragedy.  It  was  evident  that  Elsie  Vernon  had  gone  to  the 
altar  with  the  wrong  man,  and  now  Prince  Silver,  not  Golden, 
Hair,  had  come  at  last,  and  before  long  they  would  be 
treated  to  another  wedding. 

Elsie  was  taken  home  by  her  father  in  a  carriage,  Arthur 
and  Eustis  Ferris  following  on  foot.  The  lovers  were  left 
alone  in  the  rector's  study,  where  they  told  each  other  the 
story  of  their  lives  since  parting,  and  renewed  that  troth 
which  had  never  actually  been  broken. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night  a  messenger  came  from 
Woodlawn  requesting  Mr.  Ferris  and  Arthur  to  go  there  at 
once  as  serious  events  had  occurred  which  required  their 
presence.  They  took  leave  of  the  Vernons  and,  as  the  mes- 
senger had  not  waited  for  an  answer,  they  hastened  to  Wood- 
lawn  with  minds  filled  with  painful  conjectures  as  to  what 
had  taken  place  in  their  absence.  As  they  approached  the 
house  they  saw  the  light  of  a  fire  reflecting  on  the  smoke- 
house where  they  had  left  John  Merton  confined.  The  fire 
was  built  in  an  iron  pot,  and  a  crowd  of  farm  hands  and  serv- 
ants stood  around  it. 

The  crowd  moved  aside  as  the  two  gentlemen  arrived  and 
there  before  them  lay  the  dead  body  of  John  Merton.  Both 
were  shocked  for  the  moment,  but  painful  feelings  soon  passed 
away,  for  how  could  they  have  any  sentiment  over  one  who 
had  so  imbittered  their  lives  1  Their  feeling  was  rather  one 
of  relief  that  Merton's  crimes  would  not  now  be  published 
to  the  world,  and  satisfaction  that  this  dreadful  man  would 
never  again  harm  any  one. 


ARTHUR  MERTOiW  321 

On  inquiring  into  the  particulars  of  Merton's  death  the 
stable-man  who  had  been  appointed  to  keep  watch  with  the 
old  man  known  as  Kirby  Brush,  related  that  he  and  the  lat- 
ter had  first  taken  their  places  at  the  door  of  the  smoke- 
house but,  as  the  night  was  cool  and  the  wind  sharp,  they 
moved  around  to  the  lee  side  for  protection.  They  sat  there 
talking  until  ten  o'clock.  During  this  conversation,  the  old 
man  had  exhibited  a  double-barrel  pistol  which  he  had  pur- 
chased in  London,  determined,  he  said,  that  if  he  met  Merton 
and  the  latter  attempted  to  assault  him,  to  shoot  him  on  the 
spot.  The  old  man  replaced  his  pistol  and  continued  his 
talk.  It  became  colder,  and  the  stable-man  went  to  the  sta- 
ble to  light  a  fire  in  the  iron  pot  which  was  kept  for  the  pur- 
pose of  warming  the  mash  for  the  horses.  He  was  returning 
to  the  smoke-house  when  he  heard  two  pistol-shots,  and  ran 
at  once  to  the  spot.  He  found  the  smoke-house  door  open 
and  John  Merton  lying  dead  upon  the  ground  free  from  the 
fastenings  which  had  confined  his  hands.  He  then  called 
the  other  stable-man  who  hurried  to  the  spot,  and  on  exami- 
nation of  Merton's  body  two  pistol-balls  were  found  in  the 
head,  and  the  old  man  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  though 
parties  were  sent  in  all  directions  to  seek  him. 

The  rope  that  tied  the  dead  man's  hands  had  been  found 
on  the  floor,  evidently  gnawed  in  two  by  Merton's  teeth.  A 
knife  containing  small  steel  saws,  files,  and  a  screw-driver  was 
found  inside  the  door  of  the  smoke-house,  the  lock  of  which 
had  been  unscrewed  and  lay  upon  the  floor.  It  was  sup- 
posed that  while  the  stable-man  was  away  lighting  the  fire, 
the  old  man  heard  a  noise  in  the  smoke-house,  went  around 
to  the  door,  and,  seeing  Merton  emerging  from  it,  had  shot 
him  to  prevent  his  escape. 

This,  no  doubt,  was  the  solution  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  villain  had  met  his  death.  His  huge  teeth  had  in  the 
last  moment  of  his  life  snapped  together  with  a  force  that 
caused  one  of  them  to  break,  and  the  forbidding  look  which 
he  wore  when  angry  was  fixed  upon  his  countenance  in 
21 


322  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

death.  The  man  was  dead,  and  there  was  nothing  more  to 
be  done.  The  body  was  returned  to  the  smoke-house  and 
the  door  fastened  until  the  arrival  of  the  detectives.  Then 
Arthur  and  Ferris  entered  the  house. 

Arthur  found  his  aunt  awaiting  him  in  the  parlor,  and 
in  a  few  words  he  gave  her  an  account  of  what  had  taken 
place.  She  only  said  :  ''  Thank  God,  we  will  all  be  happy 
once  more." 

Before  his  mother  retired  Arthur  went  to  her  room,  and 
she  sprang  forward  to  meet  him,  crying  :  "  What  has  hap- 
pened, Arthur  ?  I  see  by  your  face  that  something  unusual 
has  taken  place." 

"  Darling  mother,"  he  said,  *'  Mr.  Merton  is  dead,  and 
you  are  free,  now  and  forever,  from  his  presence." 

Julia  opened  her  eyes  in  wonder,  but  felt  no  sorrow.  ''  Ar- 
thur," she  said,  *'  I  have  suffered  so  much  from  Mr.  Merton 
that  I  can  shed  no  tears  for  him.  May  God  forgive  him 
for  all  that  he  has  made  me  suffer  !  I  hope  he  died  without 
pain." 

"He  died  without  pain,  mother,  but  without  time  to 
repent.     That  is  the  worst  part  of  his  death." 

"  Then  may  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul,"  she  said.  "  I 
freely  forgive  him  for  all  that  he  has  done  to  me  and  hope 
that  he  may  pass  a  better  life  in  the  world  to  which  his  soul 
has  gone." 

Arthur  took  his  mother  in  his  arms  and  said  :  "  You  dear, 
sweet  mother,  these  are  sentiments  worthy  of  you,  and  you 
will  be  blessed.  I  see  in  the  future  the  purest  happiness  for 
you  and  a  long  life  of  blessings  worthy  of  a  woman  who  can 
forgive  one  who  has  so  deeply  wronged  her.  I  have  seen 
Elsie,  dear  mother,"  continued  Arthur,  "  and  she  is  as  true  to 
me  as  ever.  I  will  not  tell  you  the  details  of  our  meeting, 
but  we  are  to  be  married  in  two  weeks  and  are  to  live  to- 
gether in  this  house.     Will  that  suit  you,  mother  }  " 

"  Suit  me  ? "  said  Julia,  the  tears  springing  to  her  eyes. 
*'  God  is  showering  so  many  blessings  upon  me  that  I  am 


ARTHUR  MERTON, 


323 


afraid  I  shall  find  it  all  a  dream.  Only  think,  Arthur,  yes- 
terday I  had  nothing,  to-day  I  have  everything  in  the  world 
that  I  ever  wished  for.  Now  I  must  retire  ;  I  do  not  often 
sit  up  as  late  as  this."  She  kissed  her  son  twenty  times  at' 
least,  and  then  rang  the  bell  for  her  maid. 

That  night  Julia's  dreams  were  of  the  most  pleasing  na- 
ture and  she  awoke  in  the  morning  more  refreshed  than  she 
had  been  for  years.  Her  mind  was  clear  and  the  events  of 
her  childhood  began  to  come  back  to  her.  God  had  restored 
her  reason,  the  temporary  loss  of  which  had  saved  her  from 
so  much  misery,  and  now  she  was  about  to  enjoy  life  with  a 
double  pleasure  from  the  fact  that  her  path  had  hitherto 
been  strewed  with  thorns. 

Arthur  and  Eustis  Ferris  slept  soundly  after  the  excite- 
ment through  which  they  had  passed.  It  is  seldom  that  a 
single  day  has  so  many  eventful  incidents  crowded  into  it. 
As  the  rays  of  the  sun  streamed  through  their  windows  the 
following  morning  they  arose  with  hearts  full  of  thankfulness 
for  the  happiness  that  had  poured  in  upon  them.  The  world 
looked  so  bright  to  them  they  almost  feared  their  joy  would 
not  last. 

John  Merton  slept  that  night  the  sleep  of  death.  Although 
with  such  a  record  of  crime  against  him  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  the  Creator  was  merciful  to  his  soul.  The  world  was 
well  rid  of  a  great  criminal.  How  dreadful  is  the  death  of 
one  who  leaves  not  a  single  being  on  earth  to  regret  him  ! 


CHAPTER   XXVni. 

Two  weeks  after  the  events  recorded  in  the  preceding 
chapter,  the  church  was  again  opened  at  eleven  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  The  banns  had  been  published,  and  all  the 
villagers  had  been  informed  that  Arthur  Merton  was  to  lead 
Elsie  Vernon  to  the  altar. 


3M 


ARTHUR  MERTON, 


Never  in  the  remembrance  of  the  oldest  inhabitant  had 
the  little  village  been  stirred  by  so  many  exciting  incidents. 
First,  the  interrupted  wedding  of  Ronald  Pentland  and 
Elsie  ;  then  the  death  of  John  Merton  who,  according  to 
the  verdict  of  the  coroner's  jury,  was  "  shot  by  persons  un- 
known"; and  next,  the  prospective  marriage  of  Arthur  and 
Elsie.  On  the  present  occasion  all  the  principal  people  of 
the  village  were  invited  to  attend.  Everybody  was  in  holi- 
day attire,  and  most  of  the  invited  guests  brought  with  them 
quantities  of  flowers  which  covered  not  only  the  altar  but 
half  the  floor  of  the  chancel.  All  knew  the  story  of  Arthur 
and  Elsie's  love,  and  the  greatest  interest  was  taken  in  the 
wedding.  Eustis  Ferris  acted  as  best  man  for  Arthur,  and 
Elsie,  not  to  disappoint  them,  had  the  same  little  girls  to  at- 
tend her  as  on  the  former  occasion. 

As  Elsie  walked  up  the  aisle  with  her  father  every  one 
noticed  how  differently  the  bride  looked  on  this  occasion 
from  what  she  did  on  the  last.  Her  face  was  rosy  with 
health  and  happiness,  her  lips  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  her 
lustrous  eyes  shone  with  a  brightness  to  which  they  had 
long  been  strangers. 

The  Rev.  Rowley  Dimple  performed  the  ceremony.  On 
the  former  occasion,  when  the  eclaircissement  took  place, 
he  saw  "  the  deluge,"  meekly  put  up  his  prayer-book,  and 
stepped  back  to  the  altar,  where  he  knelt  in  prayer,  medi- 
tating the  while  on  the  mutability  of  human  affairs,  includ- 
ing the  loss  of  his  fee.  On  the  present  occasion  he  saw  the 
vision  of  a  handsome  gratuity  before  him,  and  his  counte- 
nance wore  a  delighted  smile. 

The  guests  one  and  all  declared  that  they  had  never  seen 
a  more  handsome  couple,  and  as  Arthur  and  Elsie  looked 
lovingly  into  each  other's  eyes  every  one  was  satisfied  that 
here  were  two  hearts  that  beat  in  unison,  and  would  cling 
to  each  other  and  create  a  little  world  of  bliss  about  them 
that  would  bring  light  and  happiness  to  all  who  came  within 
their  influence. 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


325 


When  Arthur  retired  from  the  church  with  Elsie  on  his 
arm,  he  felt  like  a  conqueror  who  had  the  world  at  his  feet. 
He  waited  at  the  door  for  his  mother,  who  was  present  at 
the  ceremony,  put  her  in  the  carriage,  and  said  to  the  driver, 
"Home."  What  a  world  of  happiness  did  that  precious 
word  bring  before  his  imagination  !  "  Home  "  was  Wood- 
lawn,  the  place  where  his  mother  had  passed  the  only  days 
of  rest  she  had  known  for  years,  and  where  he  expected  to 
spend  his  life  in  peace  and  affluence. 

When  a  great  storm  has  passed  over  a  home  and  it  re- 
mains intact,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  panes  of  glass 
broken  or  a  few  bushes  torn  up,  there  is  not  much  to  be 
said  about  it.  The  storm  had  overtaken  these  good  people 
and  almost  wrecked  their  lives,  but  they  had  faced  the 
tempest  nobly,  and  emerged  from  it  unscathed.  The  earth 
looked  bright  to  them,  and  they  determined  never  to  refer 
to  the  sorrows  they  had  undergone,  but  to  take  life  pleas- 
antly, and  live  on  the  hopes  of  the  future.  There,  at  Wood- 
lawn,  we  will  leave  them. 

John  Merton  had  accumulated  four  million  pounds 
sterling  well  invested,  and  as  he  left  no  will  it  all  fell 
to  Arthur  and  his  mother.  The  former  paid  the  amount 
which  had  been  stolen  from  the  Melbourne  Bank,  and  made 
a  handsome  provision  for  the  Melbourne  woman  who  claimed 
to  be  John  Merton's  wife.  Thus  Arthur  and  Elsie  com- 
menced a  new  life  with  plenty  of  means  to  devote  to  those 
charitable  offices  which  the  good  love  to  promote. 

Squire  and  Mrs.  Pentland  were  not  invited  to  the  wed- 
ding. It  vv-ould  have  been  a  mockery ;  besides,  the  squire 
lay  sick,  and  it  was  some  days  before  he  could  rise  from  his 
bed.  He  said  to  his  wife  :  "  I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  that  life 
will  bring  us  few  joys  in  the  future,  and  we  had  better  move 
from  here  to  our  little  place  in  Wiltshire,  at  least  for  some 
years.  I  was  too  much  wedded  to  my  jury  theory.  Even 
juries  make  mistakes,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  Read  that 
letter  Ronald  wrote  me  confessing  his   sins.      Poor  boy  ! 


326  ARTHUR  MERTON, 

There  was  a  woman  in  the  case,  and  that  always  tends  to 
make  mischief." 

Ronald  Pentland  escaped  to  Liverpool,  whence  he  had 
written  his  parents,  making  a  clean  breast  of  his  iniquities, 
and  afterward  taken  passage  for  America.  He  asked  Ar- 
thur's forgiveness,  and  wished  that  Heaven's  blessings  might 
fall  on  Elsie's  head.  A  few  months  later  his  parents  re- 
ceived letters  from  him  announcing  that  he  was  employed 
as  clerk  in  an  insurance  office.  His  mother  almost  fainted 
at  hearing  the  news  of  what  she  styled  "  his  degradation." 
The  squire  sighed  and  simply  said  :  "  Better  so,  dear  wife, 
than  to  come  before  a  jury,  for  I  fear  that  the  great  pal- 
ladium of  British  liberty  might  deal  unpleasantly  with  him 
despite  the  fact  that  he  belongs  to  the  gentry." 

Three  weeks  passed  at  Woodlawn  after  the  wedding,  and 
never  was  there  a  happier  party.  Eustis  Ferris  spent  most 
of  his  time  with  Julia,  who  recovered  rapidly  now  that  she 
was  surrounded  by  those  she  loved,  and  had  nothing  to 
dread  from  her  husband. 

Arthur  proposed  that,  as  a  variety  in  the  pleasures  of  the 
honeymoon,  the  family  should  proceed  to  Lyneham  and 
take  up  their  abode  in  the  old  Lester  cottage,  which  was 
ordered  to  be  prepared  for  the  purpose.  Accordingly,  they 
all  started  off  one  fair  morning  for  Lyneham  with  spirits  as 
buoyant  as  happy  hearts  could  hold,  and  in  due  time  took 
possession.  Eustis  Ferris  accompanied  the  party,  as  he  was 
now  considered  one  of  the  family. 

What  fond  memories  did  this  visit  bring  back  to  the  two 
who  had  spent  some  of  the  happiest  days  of  their  lives  here 
as  well  as  some  of  the  bitterest !  But  the  storm  had  passed 
and  the  clouds  that  remained  were  tinged  with  gold,  and  in 
their  hearts  beat  hopes  that  were  not  to  be  disappointed. 
"  Come,  Julia,"  said  Eustis,  "  let  us  go  at  once  to  the  Avon 
where  we  used  to  walk  and  tell  each  other  our  hopes  of  the 
future.  When  I  see  the  Avon  once  more,  with  you  at  my 
side,  I  shall  be  sure  that  this  is  no  dream,  but  happy  reality." 


ARTHUR  MERTON. 


327 


Julia  had  recovered  so  rapidly  her  mental  and  bodily 
health  that  any  one  who  had  seen  her  two  months  before 
would  not  have  recognized  her  for  the  same  person.  Her 
beauty  had  returned  to  her,  and  she  looked  as  happy  as  a 
young  girl  who  had  realized  her  hopes  of  being  united  to 
the  man  she  loved. 

When  the  lovers  had  walked  a  mile  along  the  banks  of 
the  Avon,  they  came  to  a  large  tree  whose  overhanging 
boughs  almost  touched  the  water.  There  Eustis  stopped 
and  said,  "  Julia,  do  you  remember  this  tree  ? " 

"Perfectly,  Eustis,"  she  replied;  "it  was  here  that  you 
first  told  me  that  you  loved  me,  though  I  knew  it  before. 
How  often  since  that  time  have  I  come  here  to  rest,  and 
wonder  whether  you  would  forgive  me  for  my  marriage,  or 
curse  me  for  my  unfaithfulness." 

'*  There  was  nothing  to  forgive,  darling,"  he  said.  "But, 
Julia,  let  us  renew  here  those  vows  which  made  us  the  hap- 
piest couple  in  the  world,"  and,  taking  from  his  pocket  a 
diamond  ring,  he  continued,  "  let  me  place  this  on  your 
finger  as  a  sign  of  our  second  betrothal.  You  are  dearer 
to  me  now  than  you  ever  were  in  your  life,  since  the  sorrows 
you  have  undergone  and  the  wretchedness  I  myself  have 
suffered." 

Julia  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  placed  the  ring  upon  her 
finger,  and  then  she  held  up  her  face  to  be  kissed.  Eustis 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  her  to  his  bosom. 
"  Here,"  he  said,  "  is  the  shelter  that  will  protect  you  from  the 
storms  of  life,  and  we  will  look  back  on  the  past  as  on  some 
hideous  dream."  They  proceeded  back  to  the  cottage,  and 
on  their  arrival,  their  happy  faces  and  endearing  manner  to 
each  other  revealed   what  their  friends  had  been  expecting. 

In  one  year  after  John  Merton's  death,  Eustis  Ferris  and 
Julia  were  married.  The  wedding  was  a  great  event,  and 
the  services  of  the  Rev.  Rowley  Dimple  were  again  called 
into  requisition.  The  reverend  gentleman  was  only  sorry 
that  no  more  of  the  family  remained  to  be  married. 


328  ARTHUR  MERTON. 

Six  months  later  Eustis  Ferris  received  the  following 
letter  : 

"  America,  Decetnber  20,  18 — . 

"  I  write  to  you  to  ease  my  mind  and  tell  you  how  I 
came  to  kill  Kirby  Brush,  alias  John  Merton. 

"  I  was  alone  on  watch  at  the  time,  and  heard  a  noise 
inside  the  smoke-house.  I  listened,  and  heard  Merton  mov- 
ing about.     As  I  approached  the  door,  John  Merton  stepped 

out,  snapping  his  jaws,  and  muttering  :  '  D n  them,  now 

I'll  kill  them  both  !  She  shall  never  marry  him  ! '  With 
that,  I  fired  two  shots  and  Merton  fell  without  a  groan. 
Then  I  came  here  to  America. 

"  I  am  not  a  murderer.  I  only  killed  a  wolf  who  would 
have  murdered  the  woman  whom  I  respect  more  than  any 
one  in  the  world,  and  whose  sorrows  were  owing  to  my  want 
of  moral  courage. 

"  Do  not  inquire  for  me.  I  am  happy  here,  a  man  with- 
out a  name.  You  could  not  find  me  in  this  land  of  a 
thousand  cities  and  vast  wildernesses.  Adieu.  May  God 
bless  you  all,  is  the  prayer  of  No.  10." 


THE   END. 


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tics.     By  Justin  McCarthy  and  Mrs.  Campbell-Praed. 

•'  The  moral  is  sound.  It  is  one  of  duty  victoriously  achieved  though  at  great 
coet;  and  perhaps  verisimilitude  is  not  strained  by  the  idealization  which  im- 
putes to  the  woman's  superior  strength  of  renunciation  and  moral  stamina  the 
successful  passage  through  the  last  and  most  fiery  trial.  Incidentally  there  is 
much  bright  description  of  fashionable  life  and  people."— A'ew  York  Ti-ibune. 

9.  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.    By  Maxwell  Grey. 

"The  story  culminates  in  a  scene  which  is  almost  unequaled  and  unexampled 
in  fiction.  ...  As  a  tale  of  spiritual  struggle,  as  a  marvelously  graphic  and  vital 
picture  of  the  action  and  reaction  of  human  life, '  The  Silence  of  Deaii  Maitland' 
IS  a  book  that  is  destined  to  an  extraordinary  recognition  and  permanent  fame  in 
literature."— Boston  Traveller. 

10.  MRS.  LORIMER:  A  Study  in  Black  and  White.     By  Lucas  Malet, 

author  of  "  Colonel  Enderby's  Wife,"  "  A  Counsel  of  Perfection." 

"'Mrs.  Lorimer'  is  not  onlv  brimful  of  cleverness,  profuse  and  careless 
cleverness,  as  of  one  rich  in  intelligence,  and  of  genuine,  softly  reflective  humor, 
such  as  critics  love  ;  but  of  power  of  a  kind  so  separate  that  it  is  hard  to  charac- 
terize without  quoting  in  justification  the  whole  book.  It  is  as  a  story  of  rare 
prominence,  alike  of  humor  and  of  pathos,  that  we  recommend  '  Mrs.  Lorimer.'  ' 
— London  Spectator. 

II.  THE  ELECT  LADY.     By  George  MacDonald,  author  of  "Home 

Again,"  etc. 

"Rich  in  imaginative  beauty  and  fine  insight  into  the  mysteries  of  spiritual 
life."— ion a'on  Spectator. 

"There  are  some  good  bits  of  dialogue  and  strong  situations  in  the  book."— 
The  Athenaeum. 

12.  THE   MYSTERY   OF  THE    "OCEAN   STAR."     A  Collection  of 

Maritime    Sketches.      By  W.  Clark  Russell,  author  of   "The 

Wreck  of  the  '  Grosvenor,'  "  etc. 

"Mr.  Clark  Eussell  occupies  a  peculiarly  happy  position  in  literature.  He  is 
absolutely  without  competitors.  Opinions  may  differ  as  to  the  best  writer  in 
almost  any  other  line  of  work,  but  there  is  only  one  fabulist  of  the  ?ea,  and,  in 
one  reppect.  Clark  Russell  is  a  better  story-teller  than  any  of  his  colleagues  in 
other  branches  of  fiction."— ^Sa?*  FrancAsco  Examiner. 

13.  ARISTOCRACY.     A  Novel.     (In  cloth.     Price,  $1.00.) 

"A  very  clever  and  amusing  piece  of  novel-writing  is  'Aristocracy,'  by  an 
unknown  author,  who  seems  to  have  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  manners  and 
tone  of  eood  society  in  England  to  satirize  them  unmercifully,  while  adiiering  in 
a  considerable  decree  to  the  truth.  ...  He  also  knows  how  to  write  an  interest- 
ing story,  and  his  book  has  not  a  dull  page  in  \V—The  Swi,  New  York. 


Appletons'  Town  and  Country  Library. 

14.  A    RECOILING   VEXGEAXCE.      By  Feank  Barrett,  author   of 

"  His  Helpmate,"  "  The  Great  Hesper."     With  Illustrations. 

"Avervpretty,  natural  and  refreshing  story  is 'A  KecoilingYengeance.'  .  .  . 
?t  is  a  story  told  in  the  first  person  of  a  struggle  for  the  inheritance  of  a  wealthy 
lawyer  in  a  country  town,  and  in  its  clearness  and  brightness  reminds  us  not  a 
little  of  the  manner  of  Anthony  TxqWo^q."— London  Saturday  Retiew. 

15.  THE  SECRET  OF  FOXTAIXE-LA-CROIX.     A  Xovel.     By  Mar- 

garet Field. 

The  heroine  of  this  story  is  an  Englishwoman,  but  the  events  occnr  principally 
in  France.  In  the  main  the  story  is  domestic  in  character.  afi"ording  some  charm- 
iug  pictures  of  life  in  a  French  chateau,  but  scenes  in  the  Franco-German  War 
are  also  depicted,  and  the  action  leads  up  to  a  striking  and  most  di-amatic 
situation. 

"An  interesting  story  well  told." — Christian  Union. 

"Altogether  a  delightful  iior^.'"— Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

16.  THE  MASTER  OF  RATHKELLY.     A  Xovel.     By  Hattley  Smart, 

author  of  "A  False  Start,"  "Breezie  Langton,"  etc. 

"The  Master  of  Rathkelly"  is  an  Irish  landlord,  and  the  incidents  of  the 

story  illustrate  the  nature  of  'the  present  conflict  in  Ireland  in  a  striking  manner. 

17.  DOXOVAX:    A  Modern  Englishman.      A  Xovel.      By  Edna  Lyall. 

Xew  cheap  edition.     (In  cloth.     Price,  81.50.) 

A  cheap  edition  of  "  Donovan  "  ha?  long  been  called  for  by  those  who  have 
recoouized  its  merits,  and  wished  to  see  its  influence  extended.  It  falls  within 
the  range  of  thou^hi  stimulated  by  "Kobert  Llsmere,"  and  books  of  its  class. 

18.  THIS  MORTAL  COIL.     A  Xovel.     By  Grant  Allen. 

"  Mr.  Grant  Allen's  is  a  good  story,  a  little  burdened  with  the  constant  effort 
for  a  sparkling:  narrative,  but  fairly  true  to  life,  and  speaks  through  its  charac- 
ters."—TAe  AthencBum. 

19.  A  FAIR  EMIGRAXT.     By  Rosa  Mulholland,  author  of  "Marcella 

Grace,"  etc. 

*'  The  '  fair  emigrant'  is  a  youne  lady  who  retnrng  to  her  father's  country  for 
the  purpose  of  irvinir  to  clear'his  name  from  the  di^L'race  of  a  crime  with  which 
he  was  falsely  charged.  .  .  ,  A  yery  iuteresiing  uixvTSLXiye.''''— The  Spectator. 

"  A  capital  noyeV— Scotsman. 

20.  THE  APOSTATE.     A  Xovel.     By  Ernest  Daudet. 

"  The  Apostate  "  is  a  novel  of  much  more  than  ordinary  power,  and  in  a  field 
somewhat  new.  In  morals  it  is  unobjectionable,  and  in  style  noble  and  impress- 
ire.    The  translation  has  been  carefully  done. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  Pdblishers,  1,  3,  «fc  5  Bond  Stbeet,  New  York. 


Appletons*   Town  and  Country  Library, 

21.  RALEIGH    WESTGATE;    or,  Epimenides  in  Maine.      By  Helen 

Kendrick  Johnson. 

The  time  of  this  story  is  just  before  and  during  the  rebellion,  but  the  reader 
is  carried  back  to  some  curious  episodes  in  the  early  history  of  Maine,  the  tradi- 
tions of  which  supply  part  of  the  material  for  the  plot. 

"Out  of  the  common  run  of  fiction."— Boston  Beacon. 

"  An  atmosphere  of  quaint  humor  pervades  the  book."— CAm^ian  Inquirer. 

22.  ARIUS  THE   LIBYAN :   A  Romance  of  the  Primitive  Church.     A 

new  cheap  edition.     (Also  in  cloth.     Price,  $1.25.) 

"  Portrays  the  life  and  character  of  the  primitive  Christians  with  great  force 
and  vividness  of  imagination."— ^ar^jer's  Magazine. 

"Beside  this  work  most  of  the  so-called  religious  novels  fade  into  insignifi- 
cance."-/S^^rmg/fe^tZ  Republican. 

23.  CONSTANCE,  AND  CALBOT'S  RIVAL.     By  Julian  Hawthorne. 

"  The  reader  will  find  a  fascinating  interest  in  these  strange  and  cleverly  told 
stories  which  are  as  ingenious  in  conception  as  they  are  brilliant  in  develop- 
ment."—Boston  Gazette. 

24.  WE   TWO.     By  Edna  Lyall,  author  of  "Donovan."     New  cheap 

edition.     (Also  in  cloth.     Price,  $1.50.) 

"We  recommend  all  novel  readers  to  treat  this  novel  with  the  care  which 
such  a  strong,  uncommon,  and  thoughtful  book  demands  and  deserves." — London 
Spectator. 

25.  A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS.     A  Modern  Romance.     By  the  author 

of  "  Thoth." 

"  Of  an  original  and  artistic  type  .  .  .  near  to  being  a  tremendous  feat  of 
fiincy." — Athenaeum. 

"  Resembles  its  predecessor  ( "  Thoth  " )  in  the  weirdness  of  the  plot  and  the 
incisive  brilliance  of  style."— Xo??6?on  Literary  M'orld. 

26.  THE  LADIES'  GALLERY.     A  Novel.     By  Justin  McCarthy  and 

Mrs.  Campbell-Praed. 

"  It  is  interesting  and  racy,  and  abounds  in  clever  sketches  of  character  and 
in  good  situations.  Both  authors  are,  so  to  speak,  on  their  native  heath.  .  .  . 
Altogether,  the  book  abounds  in  amusement." — London  Guardian. 

"An  absorbing,  powerful,  and  artistic  work." — London  Post. 

21.  THE  REPROACH  OF  ANNESLEY.     By  Maxwell  Grey,  author 

of  "The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland." 

"  The  Reproach  of  Annesley  "  will  be  welcomed  by  every  reader  of  "  The 
Silence  of  Dean  Maitland,"  a  novel  that  has  been  pronounced  by  both  English 
and  American  critics  a  work  possessing  striking  power  and  originality. 

28.  NEAR  TO  HAPPINESS.    A  Novel.    Translated  from  the  French 

by  Frank  H.  Potter. 

"The  plot  is  strong  and  clearly  constructed,  and  the  characters  are  sketched 
with  marked  for^e  and  artistic  skill.  The  era  of  the  incidents  is  that  of  the 
Franco-German  War,  and  the  point  about  which  they  revolve  is  a  tender  love- 
story  to  which  a  deep  dramatic  interest  is  imparted."— .Boston  Gazette. 


Appletons'  Town  and  Country  Library. 

29.  IX   THE   Wir.E-GRASS.     A  Xovel.     By  Louis  Pendleton. 

"An  unusually  clever  novel  is  'In  the  Wire  Grass,'  by  Louis  Pendleton 
(Appletons).  It  presents  a  vivid  picture  of  Southern  life  by  a  native  of  the  South, 
aud  abounds  in  incidents  and  characters  racy  of  the  soil.  .  .  .  The  humor  ies 
everywhere  bright  and  genuine,  and  the  action  uniformly  brisk.''''— The  Sun. 

30.  LACE.     A  Berlin  Romance.     By  Paul  Lindau. 

"'Lace.'  Lindau's  novel,  of  which  the  Appletons  have  just  published  a  thor- 
oughly good  translation,  gets  its  name  from  the  fateful  rSle  held  in  it  by  a  mar- 
velous mantle  of  Brabant  lace.  This  mantle  wanders  through  the  mazes  of  this 
story  like  a  specter  that  will  not  down,  and,  rarely  beamiful  as  it  is,  grows  in 
the  end  into  a  veritable  robe  of  Nessus.  .  .  .  Altogether,  'Lace'  is  one  of  the 
most  effective  pieces  of  work  that  we  have  seen  for  a  long  time.''— Commeixial 
Advertiser. 

31.  AM  ERIC  AX   COIX.     A  Xovel.     By  the  author  of  "  Aristocracy." 

A  satirical  picture  of  impecunious  Enelish  peers  in  search  of  fortunes,  and 
of  the  daughters  of  American  millionaires  in  ?earch  of  titles. 

'"American  Coin'  is  a  remarkably  clever  and  readable  story."— A^.  Y.  Herald. 

32.  WON  BY   WAITIXG.     By  Edna  Lyall.     A  new  cheap  edition. 

"  The  sentiment  of  the  story  is  delicate  and  uplifting,  and  the  style  is  uncom- 
monly spirited  and  active." — Boston  Gazette. 

33.  THE   STORY   OF   HELEX   DAVENAXT.     By  Violet  Fane. 

"Neither  Miss  Braddon  nor  the  author  of  'The  House  on  the  Marsh'  could 
have  contrived  a  more  ingenious  story  than  that  of  'Helen  Davenant.' " — The 
Academy. 

34.  THE    LIGHT    OF    HER    COUXTEXAXCE.     By  H.  H.  Boyesen, 

author  of   "  Gunnar,"  "Idyls  of   Xorway,"  "A  Daughter  of  the 

Philistines,"  etc. 

The  scenes  of  this  story  open  in  New  York,  but  the  action  soon  shifts  to  Italy. 
The  characters  are  mainly  American  and  English.  The  incidents  are  picturesque, 
and  the  movement  animated. 

85.  MISTRESS    BEATRICE    COPE;    or,  Passages   in  the   Life   of  a 

Jacobite's  Daughter.     By  M.  E.  Le  Clerc. 

"  A  simple,  natural,  credible  romance,  charged  with  the  color  of  the  time  and 
satisfying  to  the  mind  of  a  thoughtful  reader."— J^e  Athenaeum. 

36.  KXIGHT-ERRANT.     By  Edna  Lyall.     A  new  cheap  edition. 

"'Knight-Errant'  is  marked  by  the  author's  best  qualities  as  a  writer  of 
fiction,  and  displays  on  every  page  the  grace  and  quiet  power  of  her  former 
works."— T/^  Athenczum. 


12mo,  pa  pep  cover.     Ppiee,  SO  cents  each. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers,  1,  3,  &  5  Boxd  Street,  New  York. 


D.  APPLETON   &    CO/S   PUBUOATIONS. 


A  VIRGINIA  INHERITANCE.     By  Edmund  Pendleton,  author 

of  "A  Conventional  Bohemian."     12mo.     Paper,  50  cents;  cloth, 

$1.00. 

*"  A  Virginia  Inheritance'  will  easily  take  rank  among  the  best  novels  that 
have  appeared  this  year,  both  for  the  remarkable  interest  and  artistically  skillful 
development  of  the  ptory,  and  for  the  brilliancy  and  originality  of  its  character- 
sketching."— jBos^ow  Home  Journal. 

A  NYMPH  OF  THE  WEST.    By  Howard  Seelt.    12mo.    Paper, 

50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"In  his  'Nymph  of  the  West'  Mr.  Howard  Seely  has  presented  a  lively  and 
picturesque,  if  somewhat  highly  colored,  study  of  life  on  the  ranch  and  the  ranoe 
in  western  Texas,  which  region,  as  well  as  with  the  habits  of  its  people,  he  ap- 
pears to  be  unusually  familiar.  Cynthia  Dallas,  the  heroine,  is  a  fresh  and 
original  conception — a  frank,  high-minded  girl,  with  enough  of  the  innocent  co- 
quetry of  her  sex  to  make  her  almost  irresistible." — The  Sun  (New  York). 

A   DEBUTANTE   IN  NEW  YORK  SOCIETY.     IIER  ILLU- 

SIGNS,  AND  WHAT  BECAME  OF  THEM.    By  Rachel  Buchanan. 

12mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  There  is  a  keenness  of  social  satire,  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  New 
York  society,  and  an  abundance  of  wit,  which  combine  to  make  the  book  un- 
usually attractive." — Boston  Courier. 

"It  seems  to  be  the  work  of  a  lady  who  has  witnessed  what  she  chronicles. 
She  makes  her  report  on  the  actualities  and  illusions  of  Mew  York  society  with' 
out  a  particle  of  sarcasm  or  ill-feeling."— ,/(>wr;ia/  of  Commerce. 

NINETTE:  An  Idyll  of  Provence.  By  the  author  of  "Vera." 
12mo.     Paper,  50  cents;  half  bound,  '75  cents. 

"The  tale  in  itself  is  true  to  nature  and  tenderly  pathetic."— Zon(?on  Post, 
"  This  is  a  particularly  well-told  Btoiy. ""—London  Globe. 

A  COUNSEIi  OF  PERFECTION.  By  Lucas  Malet,  author  of 
"Mrs.  Lorimer,"  "Colonel  Enderby's  Wife,"  etc.  12mo.  Paper,  50 
cents  ;  half  bound,  75  cents. 

"It  would  require  us  to  go  back  to  Miss  Austen  to  find  anything  that  better 
deserved  the  praise  of  fine  form,  fine  grouping,  fine  coloring,  humorous  delinea- 
tion, and  precision  of  design."— ZcMo/i  Spectator. 

THE  ELECT  LADY.  By  George  MacDonald,  author  of  "Home 
Again,"  etc.     12mo.     Paper,  50  cents;  half  bound,  75  cents. 

"  There  are  some  good  bits  of  dialogue  and  strong  situations  in  the  book." — 
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"  Rich  in  imaginative  beauty  and  fine  insight  into  the  mysteries  of  spiritnal 
life."— Ziondoft  Spectator. 


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" '  Home  Again '  is  a  more  compact  and  complete  story  than  some  of  his  later 
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A  master's  hand  shows  itself  in  every  ^ngQ.'''— Literary  World. 

THE  STORY  OF  ANTONY  GRACE.  A  XOTEL.  By  George 
Manville  Fenx,  author  of  "  The  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,"  etc. 
12mo.     Paper,  50  cents;  half  bound,  75  cents. 

An  admirable  story  of  the  struggles,  adventures,  and  ultimate  successes  of  a 
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THE  NUN'S  CURSE.  A  XOYEL.  By  Mrs.  J.  II.  Riddell,  author 
of  "Miss  Gascoigne,"  etc.     12mo.     Paper,  50  cents;  half  bound,  75 

cents. 

A  powerful  story  that  is  not  merely  interestiDs:  but  exciting,  delineating  fresh 
and  remarkable  phases  of  lil'e  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  and  with  some  admirably- 
drawn  characters. 

««  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE. ?'  A  KOMAXCE  OF  SOCIETY 
AXD  POLITICS.  By  Justin  McCarthy,  M.  P.,  and  Mrs.  Campbell- 
Praed.     12mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  half  bound,  75  cents. 

"The  moral  is  sound.  It  is  one  of  dnty  victoriously  achieved  though  at  great 
cost :  and  perhaps  verisimilitade  is  not  strained  by  the  idealization  which  im- 
putes to  the  woman's  superior  strensrth  of  reiinnciation  and  moral  stamina  the 
successful  passasre  through  the  last  ai:d  most  fiery  trial.  Incidentally  there  is 
much  bright  description  of  fashionable  life  and  people.  Nowhere  is  there  any 
lack  of  power  or  knowledge."— A€«;  York  Tribune. 

SCHEHERAZIDE:  A  LOXDOX  XIGHPS  EXTERTAIXMEXT. 
By  Florence  Warden.     12mo.     Paper,  25  cents. 

_  "Miss  Warden  has  surpassed  herself  in  '  Scheherazade.'  In  orieinality,  dar- 
ing, and  startling  incident  it  goes  far  beyond  her  previous  works."— Zonc/on 
Morning  Post. 

"  Miss  Warden  has  conceived  and  wrought  out  a  plot  of  peculiar  ingenuity. 
._.  .  We  are  not  aware  that  any  girl  exactlv  like  Xouma  is  to  be  found  within  the 
limits  of  contemporary  fiction.  She  is  entitled  to  the  rank  and  dignity  of  a  crea- 
tion."—ioriofan  Globe. 

"Nonma  is  a  subtle  character,  far  more  subtle  than  anvthing  Dickens  ever 
attempted.  .  .  .  The  book  is  full  of  real  \\t'Q.''—Pall  2Iail  Gazette: 

FLORENCE  WARDEN'S  PREVIOUS  NOVELS. 


The  House  on  the  Marsh. 
At  the  World's  Merct. 
Deldee  ;  OR,  The  Iron  Hand. 


A  Prince  of  Darkkess. 
A  Vagrant  Wit-e. 
Doris's  FoRTtrms. 


12mo.     Paper,  25  cents  each. 


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JAMES   FENIMORE    COOPER'S    MOVELS. 

DARLEY  EDITION.  Illustrated  with  Steel  Plates  from  Drawings 
by  Darley.  Printed  on  tine  tinted  paper.  32  volumes.  Crown 
8vo.  Cloth,  extra,  gilt  top,  uncut  leaves,  $72.00  per  set;  balf  calf, 
$144.00;  half  morocco,  gilt  top,  uncut  edge,  $150.00. 

LIBRARY  EDITION.  Complete  in  32  volumes.  12mo.  Per  \ot 
ume,  $1.00. 

1.  The  Spy.*  17.  Wing-and-Wing.* 

2.  The  Pilot.*  18.  Oak  Openings. 

3.  The  Red  Rover.*  19.  Satanstoe. 

4.  The  Deerslayer.*  20.  The  Chain-Bearer. 

5.  The  Pathfinder.*  21.  The  Red-Skins. 

6.  The  Last  of  the  Mohic-     22.  The  Crater. 

ans.*  23.  HomeAvard  Bound. 

7.  The  Pioneers.*  24.  Home  as  Found. 

8.  The  Prairie.*  26.  Heidenmauer. 

9.  Lionel  Lincoln.  26.  The  Headsman. 

10.  Wept  of  Wish-ton-Wish.     27.  Jack  Tier. 

11.  The  Water-Witch.*  28.  The  Sea-Lions. 

12.  The  Bravo.  29.  Wyandotte. 

13.  Mercedes  of  Castile.  30.  The  Monikins. 

14.  The  Two  Admirals.*  31.  Precaution. 

15.  Afloat  and  Ashore.  32.  Ways  of  the  Hour. 

16.  Miles  Wallingford. 

ILLUSTRATED  EDITION.  The  Novels  of  J.  Feniraore  Cooper, 
with  64  Engravings,  from  Drawings  by  F.  0.  C.  Darley.  Complete 
in  16  volumes.  Price^  for  the  complete  set,  in  cloth,  $20.00  ;  half 
calf  or  half  morocco,  $43.00. 

OCTAVO  EDITION.     With  Illustrations  on  Wood  by  Darley.     11 

volumes,  comprising  "  The  Leather-Stocking  "  and  "  Sea  Tales  "  ; 
also  "The  Spy."  [See  volumes  in  the  foregoing  list  marked  (*).] 
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Navy  in  the  person  of  Admiral  Porter.    This  gallant  officer  was  in  the  thick  of  the  most  im- 
portant naval  engagements  of  the  war,  and  writes  of  what  he  saw,  heard,  and  did.     He  is  the 
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pedition,  General  Butler's  absurd  attempt  to  blow  up  FOrt  Fisher  with  p       -'^  - 
evacuation  of  Petersburg,  and  the  triumphant  entry  into  Richmond.    The  book  is  appr<.,^. 
named.    It  is  not  a  history,  but  a  brilliant  succession  of  incidents  and  anecdotes  which  the 
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and  give  him  a  correct  idea  of  some  of  the  greatest  acts  and  actors  in  the  Civil  War.'' — New 
York  Journal  oj  Commerce. 

Allan  Dare  and  Eobert  le  Dial)le. 

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of  vividness  in  character-sketching.  His  story  is  wildly  improbable,  but  it  rivets  the  atten- 
tion, nevertheless,  and  holds  it  steadily'  by  its  force,  originalit}',  and  daring." — Boston  Gazette. 

The  Adventures  of  Harry  larline 

OR,  NOTES  PROM  AN  AMERICAN  MIDSHIPMAN' 
BAG.  By  Admiral  David  D.  Porter.  With  ^llustra 
Paper,  $1  00 ;  cloth,  $1.50. 

" '  Harry  Marline '  is  written  in  the  racy  manner  that  ought  to  characterizt 
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of  a  midshipman's  life.    The  descriptions  are  most  exhaustive  ;  the  humor  of 
cock-and-bull  stories — 'yarns'  we  believe  they  be  called  aboardship— the  cod 
afloat ;  the  satires  upon  the  green  Secretaries  of  the  Navy  (of  those  old  days) 
most  satisfactory.    There  is  hardly  a  page  that  does  not  excite  the  risibilities 
and  after  one  closes  the  volume  delightful  memories  remain.    The  admiral  desi 
of '  our  later  Cooper,'  or  perhaps,  by  reason  of  his  deep  stratum  of  humor,  that  ol 
of  America.    There  are  several  illustrations,  well  designed  and  executed." — HartJ^ 
Post. 

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